


Struggimento Di Due

by Ourladyofresurrection



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, C.C. Tinsley - Freeform, Eventual Smut, Francesca Norris - Freeform, Has Italian in it, Kinda Shyan but kinda not, M/M, Mafia AU, Mentions of PTSD, Ryan Bergara/Shane Madej - Freeform, Ryan's a bit of a dumbass but we love him, Sex that is consensual but neither safe or sane, Shane didn’t sign up for this, Strangers to partners in crime to lovers, Tinsworth, Translations in end notes, ricky goldsworth - Freeform, ryan bergara - Freeform, set in the early 2000s, shane madej - Freeform, shyan, slowburn, solely because that's when Mamma Mia came out and its imperative Shane is obsessed with it, you’ll see what I mean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-09 16:07:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 24,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19479364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ourladyofresurrection/pseuds/Ourladyofresurrection
Summary: When Shane- or as he's better known in his field of work- C.C. Tinsley- is desperately trying to prove himself worthy as one of the newest recruits to the Mob, of course, it would be his luck that the very first case he was assigned to was commissioned by Ryan Bergara, a man of odd requests, bad-one-liners, and a severe lack of understanding of exactly how the Mob works.





	1. It’s All the Cat’s Fault

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which an orange cat lands Shane in L.A.'s biggest crime syndicate and the worst part of it all is the social anxiety.

_Look, this wasn't Shane's fault._

But in another, much more real sense, it was _entirely_ his fault.

In hindsight, maybe he shouldn't have gone out onto the sketchy, booming streets of LA at 3 am on a Tuesday night. But nothing bad ever happens on Tuesdays and Shane is a white man, so he assumed that his chances of being randomly murdered were exponentially smaller than a large portion of the rest of the population. Besides, Obi was out of cat food and was screaming bloody murder.

And hey, Shane considers himself to be a tolerant guy, but he is also only human and could only bear his furry roommate-turned-banshee's havoc for so long before he got evicted from his apartment or lost all remaining bits of sanity.

So really, this was all Obi's fault. But just thinking of the small, orange creature and the fact he hadn't seen him in five months made even the ridiculous accusation that a cat could be responsible for one's involvement with the Mob a tear-jerking thought. Laughter would bubble up in his chest, the gentle rumble as the chuckle fought its way up and out of him, before dying in his throat, leaving a sour taste in his mouth and a sinking feeling in his gut.

It wasn't Obi's fault that Shane turned down the wrong alleyway and witnessed something he wasn't supposed to see. It wasn't Obi's fault when Shane's useless limbs froze up. And it wasn't Obi's fault that Shane was now a permanent member of the most dangerous crime establishment in California.

He sighed, tapping his newly-waxed black leather shoe against the sleek, impeccable linoleum floors of the building, paying careful attention not to scuff them. There were many things the Mob looked down on- so many in fact that it would probably be easier to make a list of the things that they _did_ approve of, but devastating the soles of his Louboutins would certainly condemn him to a lifetime of working in the storage room, or worse yet: his lifeless body being thrown haphazardly into the back of a junkyard car to be incinerated, his ashes scattered to the winds.

The idea sent a shiver up his spine and a bead of sweat sent on a collision course to the hem of his newly-pressed and stiff white shirt. He fiddled with his suit's collar skittishly, longing for his college days when he could pop open the top three buttons and call it fashion- or at least not a deathwish. The classical music playing throughout the halls did absolutely nothing to calm his nerves, he felt as though he had electricity running through his bloodstream. He checked his watch impatiently, eyes flicking up to his boss' golden-trimmed door.

Another painstaking two minutes passed before the door was finally swung open, a frazzled looking, newly employed member retreating from the office as if he had been set on fire, risking a quick glance back at the Boss before hurrying away faster to his cubicle. Shane felt a pang of sympathy for the boy, it hadn't been long since he had been that guy.

Hell, Shane still was that guy. He met his boss' gaze with a gulp, trying not to impose on the obvious fact the guy was of normal stature, and therefore significantly shorter than Shane. Because of his height, Shane always felt the need to make himself as unthreatening as possible in the eyes of his superior, though with his body akin to that of Gumby, he truly felt it was an unnecessary measure.

"Sir, you ordered me to see you?" he stuttered out.

The man gave him an incredulous look, pointing his eyes towards the heavens. 'It's an attempt in vain,' Shane wanted to tell him, 'there are no remnants of God in this place.' But Shane still had impossibly high regard for his life for someone who literally had it indebted to someone else, so he didn't dare move his mouth.

"You take it that I don't know that? In case you haven't forgotten, I own you; I keep tabs on your every move, therefore I know that you've spent the past twenty minutes disgracing the finest brands of clothing with your own sweat and common-folk stench."

Shane flinched at the rebuke because as it turns out, you never really get used to getting scolded by a Mafioso. He self-consciously smoothed out his gelled-back hair.

"Get in here, boy," the boss practically spat, with utter disgust dripping from his words, "before I kill you myself, go, go!"

Shane hurried inside, instantly stubbing his toe on the corner of the desk in his haste to sit down. The ¹ _Capo_ pivoted on his heel, and Shane's ego felt stroked to think that he had enough regard for him for his idiocy to earn an incredulous look. Either that or one of the biggest crime bosses to still be alive and well wasn't well-versed in the adage, 'old habits die hard.'

²"Ahò, subordinato!" he barked, sending Shane instantly scrambling into his seat.

The man dipped his head into his weathered, bejeweled hands, muttering a defeated ³"Non posso credere che non morirò per mano della vittoria, ma la stupidità della mia inferiore."

Shane flushed all the way to the tips of his ears, 'well, at least this is further reassurance that I'm not into degradation,' he thought to himself miserably.

After an exhausted sigh, the man goes to speak again, and Shane- eager to divert the subject of conversation away from his failures- all but perked his ears at the sound of his superior speaking.

"C.C., you call yourself, correct?" the Boss asked.

Shane nodded mutely.

"Very well then. C.C., I severely regret to even inform you of this development, as your behavior in the past mere five minutes has been incredibly unbecoming of not only yourself but the ideals of our ⁴ _Cosa Nostra_. But I had the idiocy of recruiting you in the first place, at this point, I am only further digging my own grave, I fear."

Shane's attention was half divided between trying not to let his shoulders slump at the slew of creative insults, in addition to the vivid flashbacks to the entirety of his high school career, and restraining himself enough to not say a massive _'fuck youuuu,'_ to the man who literally has complete control over when and how he dies.

His attention was so focused on those three things in fact, that he nearly didn't catch the Boss' words.

"-you've been recruited for some field work."

Shane nearly chokes on his own saliva, trying not to gape and thinking of the most sophisticated way to say, ' _excuse me, but what the fuck.'_ He ended up speaking an intelligent, "Huh?"

The Capone looked as if he wanted to stick his letter opener through his skull, speaking his response as if each word physically pained him to speak, ⁵" _Mio Dio,_ C.C., this is redundant! You've been given the task of fulfilling the request of a man named Ryan Bergara who has recently contacted our services in what he considers to be a matter of utmost importance. Do you want the job or no?"

The ultimatum jerked Shane to sanity, nodding before he could even properly mull the situation over, "Yes, sir, please- I won't let you down!"

The Boss huffed a breath, shooing him out with a flick of his hand, "If you value your life, no, you won't."

Shane gulped and left the room.


	2. Spare Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Shane meets an unlikely client.

The drive to the client's house was disquieting. Shane was longing to roll his black car's tinted windows to breathe in some fresh air. It had been ages since he stepped foot outside without instantly getting ushered inside by some of the many bodyguards of the Mob, but doing so would defeat the purpose of the tinted windows in the first place. And so, Shane did what any sane person would do in the face of adversary, where someone else entirely held the winning hand of cards in the gamble of life: he sighed and sucked it the fuck up.

_'Mamma Mia'_ played softly from his car stereo, almost comically out of place in the sheer seriousness of the situation. Shane couldn't stand to hear any more classical music- he vowed that if he had to listen to any more Beethoven, he would go back in time and kill him before the liver cirrhosis did. Shane, clearly, was not cut out for this line of work. Sidling up beside the house, he put his car into park and let out a ragged breath, gloved fingers tapping into the steering wheel incessantly, the pads of his fingers etching small indents into the fabric. Shane listened to Meryl Streep sing about her shitty ex-boyfriend and how she was back on her bullshit and tried not to lose his goddamn mind.

He finally conceded to the looming imperative of getting the job done and clumsily put on his black sunglasses, stepping out of the car and making his way up the steps of the porch. The house was tiny and painted haphazardly, chipping at the edges. The construction of the house made it look as if it were bursting at the seams, and around it, what Shane assumed was supposed to be a garden, sat neglected and drowned with rainwater. It looked more like a moat than a flowerbed. Shane's fingers drummed nervously on his hemmed pants, this man obviously had no regard for his life— what kind of madman would he be faced with? Suddenly, working in the Mob's decrepit storage room was looking more and more appealing.

His hand appeared to move on its own accord, knocking against the flimsy door, properly shocked when it didn't cave in at the slight touch. Shane briefly considered ducking behind some shrubbery when someone opened the door.

Too late.

Standing in the middle of the door was a small-framed- but muscular guy. Wild black hair and wide eyes rested on his tan profile in an almost gaudy strikingness, and his pectorals...decked in a...Lakers jersey?

"H-hi, do I have the right house?" Shane asked, cursing himself for the tremble in his voice, "Ryan Bergara?" Shane clarified. Surely this must be his client's dorky roommate, the one in every action movie that seemed to pass in and out of the chaos without a single clue as to the day-job of his roommate.

"That's me!" the man grinned widely as if he wasn't staring down- or rather up the face of an actual mobster, "and you're...C.C. Tinsley?"

Shane nodded mutely, clearing his throat awkwardly. This felt like twelfth-grade prom all over again- waiting on the doorstep of his date's house, only for her to ditch him later into the night. Fuck you, Cindy.

"Well, are you gonna come in or are you just gonna stare at me? If you wanna gape at me like that, at least buy me a drink first," Ryan winked, sending a furious blush alight across Shane's cheeks.

_This is so fucking embarrassing_ , he thinks.

He goes to step inside, hoping it might help to disperse some of the thick, awkward tension that seemed to hang heavy in the air around them, but Ryan blocked the entrance with his arm at the last second.

"Wait...you wait for an invitation to come inside...you're not a vampire, are you?" Ryan narrowed his eyes, a hint of what looked suspiciously like poorly masked fear swimming in his irises.

Shane wanted to keel over right then and there on Ryan's filthy frat porch, take one of the abandoned beer bottles near the door and smash it over his head to put an end to this misery.

Instead, he said, "Vampires aren't real."

Ryan looked at him, astonished, "Next thing you're gonna tell me ghosts aren't real."

Shane gave him a baffled look, completely lost and questioning this man's sanity, "They're not."

Ryan gaped at him before squinting scrutinizingly, stepping away from the door and saying, "Alright, fine. Come in, but just know I have holy water in my kitchen."

"You have what?" Shane whispered to himself as Ryan left the door wide open, walking into the kitchen and pulling out two beers from the fridge.

Shane sighed and followed, carefully shutting the door so as not to compromise its already decrepit state.

Ryan handed him one of the amber colored bottles, cool droplets of condensation seeping onto Shane's fingertips.

"It's twelve in the afternoon," he said blankly.

Ryan shrugged, taking a swig of the drink and placing a steady hand on Shane's shoulder, "Don't act so scandalized Long Legs! Did you never partake in the occasional day-drinking with your frat brothers?"

Shane stared down the neck of the bottle, the scent permeating his nostrils as he wrung his hands restlessly around the middle, "No, actually. I was more of a...er—studious kid. Didn't have too many connections, and I most certainly wasn't in a frat."

"Awe," Ryan said, patting his shoulder a bit, "don't worry, Sasquatch, I would have danced with you at a school dance."

If Shane had a dollar every time he had blushed in the past fifteen minutes, he might be rich enough to actually buy his way out of the Mob so he never had to end up in this situation again, red-faced in the wayward abode of a former frat boy.

"Thanks?" Shane said, a baffled lilt to his voice, "look. You hired me for what apparently is a huge job. As much as I've enjoyed the er— pleasantries, care to divulge what you need so we can finish up business here?"

He reluctantly took a swig of the beer, recoiling immediately as the heavy taste stuck to his tongue like sap, sinking through the indentations of his tongue.

"God, that's fucking sweet, what is that?!"

Ryan grinned, "Hard Root Beer. Eleven percent alcohol."

Shane choked on his own sickly sweet saliva, eyes all but bulging out of his head like the prude he is, "Eleven fucking percent?! Ryan, it's barely even noon!"

"I thought we might as well have a little fun."

Shane would count his lucky stars if this enabled him to forget this day in its entirety because he'd already like to clear it from his memory as it is unfolding before his eyes.

He takes another sip and wonders for the hundredth time what his guardian angels are doing up there to puppeteer him into such comically horrific situations. What ancient God he must have pissed off to be deemed worthy of this cruel and unusual punishment. 

But of course, Shane didn't believe in all that mumbo jumbo, which was almost worse, because he only had himself to blame.

"Right," he said, clearing his throat and running his palm down the legs of his pants, "so, as much as I appreciate the pleasantries, Mr. Bergara, let's get down to business. Why have you called upon my services?"

Ryan smiled. His smiles were all teeth, Shane remarked. Kinda like a cheeky cartoon Great White shark. Man, this alcohol must already be kicking in, what the fuck.

"Oh yeah! Forgot about that," Ryan said, as if hiring a mobster was an everyday occurrence for him, "yeah, so I need someone to help me move my couch."

A belch began to materialize at the base of Shane's sternum as if his body was so whiplashed by the statement it couldn't fathom what else to do, how to react to such a thing.

"What?" Shane asked.

"Yeah. It's a hefty thing, alright. Your arms are kinda spindly, but you've got pretty nice calves from what I can see, so you should be fine."

Shane shook his head, nonplussed, "So, let me get this straight—"

"If you're referring to me, Sir, I'm afraid you won't have much luck," Ryan interjected helpfully.

For the sake of his own sanity, Shane chose to ignore that statement, "—You hired a member of L.A.'s biggest crime syndicate to help you move your couch?"

Ryan, clearly missing the panicked tone in Shane's response to his clear ignorance plowed on, grinning.

"Well, I didn't know who I was calling at first. It's not exactly something you can just Google. I was vaguely mentioning to some guy this 'dirty work' I had to do and he passed me this slip of paper with a number, telling me they could help me out."

Shane buried his head in his hands, "Oh my God, Ryan, you have no clue what you've gotten yourself into."

Ryan gave him a Cheshire cat grin, endearingly resting his cheek on one palm, squishing his face a little up towards his eye, but not obscuring it enough to hide the sparkle within them.

"Well, you're here drinking shitty beer with me, so it's not looking all so bad quite yet."

If Shane's heart twinged at that, not a living soul would ever hear of it. Not one.

"No, you don't understand. This is bad. Like, really bad," Shane stressed.

Ryan looked at him blankly.

"Do you know how the Mob works, Ryan?"

Ryan gave a laugh, "Does anyone?"

Fair point.

"Well, let me tell you one thing. When a client sends in a request, they, therefore, become indicted. Guilty by association. You become the only witness to whatever events unfold and are therefore a threat to the foundation and sanctity of the entire Cosa Nostra."

Ryan blinked blearily.

"You catching my drift?"

"You know Italian?" Ryan said, sounding entirely too enamored for someone who had just gotten a well-worded run down of 'you're fucked and here's why'

"Ryan, once you send in a request to the Mob, you become permanent property of it."

A pregnant pause settled over the air, and for one horrible second, Shane thought Ryan was going to start crying.

Instead, he broke out into his trademark grin and said, "So, Long Legs, are you gonna help me move my couch, or are you gonna leave a man waiting?"

* * *

The couch was heavy. All Shane could think of as he struggled to lift it was his experience moving furniture as a kid. "Lift with your knees, Shanedj!" his father would yell at him, mixed with various Slavic mutterings.

At one point, they had to flip the couch upside down to fit it through the doorframe, and copious— no, unacceptable amounts of pennies flew out from between the seats, landing on the floor with a series of unceremonious jingles. Once the couch was settled in the far end of Ryan's 'man-cave,' Shane retreated upwards, feeling his knees ache in protest. After all, there was a lot of vertical height for him to go back up into.He settled himself on the couch begrudgingly, trying carefully not to disturb whatever flesh-eating microbes that were surely lurking beneath the fabric. Ryan followed suit, though less carefully. Shane thought back to his original impression of him from when he first saw his house:

This man clearly has no regard for his life.

The remark aged finer than half of the alcohol in Ryan's pantry.

"Now," Shane huffed, "wanna tell me why in the goddamn hell you have several dozen pieces of Canadian currency wedged between your couch cushions or is that one better left unsolved and I'll just get going?"

"Well, no. I don't want to tell you why, but I'd also rather you not leave so soon, Mr. Tinsley."

Shane rolled his eyes, feeling the ache in his sockets— and God, that's new. The air is Ryan's frat house surely must be noxious, this is further proof as if he needed any more.

"You flirt with every mobster that walks through your front door, Bergara?"

Ryan grinned, mouth clicking unintentionally, almost endearingly as he did so, "Only the ones that are seven feet tall and have a head too big for their body."

Shane snorted hot air from his nostrils, not giving Ryan the satisfaction of a proper laugh. He seemed like the type to get off on validation.

"What a shame, I only flirt with men who aren't miles below the average male height."

Ryan's brow furrowed at that, blushing crimson beneath his tan skin, "I'll have you know I'm five-foot-ten!"

Shane did nothing. Said nothing. Just stared at him disbelievingly.

Ryan looked down, arms crossing tighter around himself, shifting his weight, "Fine, I'm five-nine and a half but—"

This time, Shane actually did laugh. Only it was okay this time because it was at Ryan's expense. He could practically feel his scowl in the air.

"S-shut up, Long Legs. 'Woulda been taller if a lummox like you didn't steal all the vertical length in the world."

Shane smiled— yes, smiled. What was he doing?

"It's nice you think highly of yourself Ryan. Well, I s'pose everyone's gotta believe in something, right?"

Ryan opened his mouth to speak, but Shane forged ahead, knowing he'd already given up.

"Now, about the pennies..."

Ryan refused to look him in the eye, still pouting, "For a rainy day..."

Shane quirked an eyebrow, encouraging him to elaborate.

"...I like the little rush of adrenaline I get when I find spare change in the couch."

This time, Shane did laugh. He wheezed so viscerally he nearly popped a lung, his head finding his hands as he shook silently, feeling Ryan's eyes burning a hole through his skull.

"Sorry, Bergara," Shane said tremulously, an amused lilt still present in his voice.

"Well," he slapped his knees and started to rise like the white man he was, "better get goin', curfew's nearly here."

Ryan looked up at him from his place still on the couch, black eyes big and staring inquisitively at him as he worried his thumb between his teeth.

"Mobsters have curfews?"

"No, but I figured you did."

Ryan scowled, but couldn't seem to formulate a comeback.

"Ah, don't worry, kid. I'll be gettin' outta your hair."

"Wait—-" Ryan interjected, grabbing his arm.

The taller man sent him an amused look, Ryan blushing furiously and dropping his hand.

"Just...goddammit, stay a minute or two...have a drink. It's the least I could do to pay you back."

"Besides giving the Mob complete control to your life? Honey, your shitty beer wouldn't even hold a candle to what you owe."

Ryan felt equal parts enamored and annoyed by the pet name, resentful of the permanent blush on his cheeks, "Don't call me honey."

He continued on, almost thoughtfully, ignoring what Ryan said, "Besides, I'm more of a whiskey guy myself. Next time, try takin' me to a bar or something, short stack."

Ryan gaped like a broken fish, stripped of his usual give-no-shits demeanor. He usually had people willing to sleep with him after the first hour, not that he was trying to get in C.C's pants or anything. Or course not.

The thought made him redden even more. Making himself even more of an embarrassment, blushing on account of his own wayward thoughts. That should be illegal.

C.C. winked, "Walk a man out, would ya? We can take a long, romantic walk to the front door, where you can thank your lucky stars I'm coverin' your ass, Bergara."

Ryan gulped as the mobster's voice lowered in volume near the end, almost threateningly, to provoke a service of sorts, arsenic ever too present in his cadence. A stark contrast to his normal even—if annoyed—tone.

"Not again, you hear?" C.C. plowed along, "no more funny business."

"Yessir," Ryan said, only half trying to be annoying.

C.C. mussed up his hair in the mirror, forgetting momentarily about la Famiglia's rule about keeping it unkempt.

"You know," Ryan said as he held the door open, loitering beside it, Shane in tow, "to an outsider, they might have vastly different ideas about what business went down in there. You know, with your hair and all..."

Shane nearly snorted, Ryan was becoming more and more forthright with his advances, it was almost clumsily endearing.

"I think you give your neighbors too much credit for their heteronormative stance."

Ryan shrugged, looking down at his expensive sneakers.

Shane ambled down the porch steps, pausing at the bottom and pivoting slightly, "Desperate's a good look on you, Bergara. Just make sure it doesn't come at the cost of your life. Me? I'm willing to play your little game. The Mob? Not so much."

Ryan nodded, looking properly flustered, looking disbelieving at his own heedless wayward cadence.

Shane paused a minute, "Oh, and kid? Don't call. For your sake and mine."

And with that, he got in his black car and drove away.


	3. Dandelion Sanctum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Fate is not an eagle, it creeps like a rat."
> 
> -Elizabeth Bowen

_Five months earlier, Los Angeles, California— 24:03_

A gun to his head.

In the air, the smell of burnt flesh, the ashy fall out of the gunpowder littering the streets, scattering throughout the area as the wind picked it up and blew it towards the Far East.

_Like blowing a dandelion_ , Shane had thought in his delirium.

Someone mumbled something to him. No, shouted. But it was as good as a cry underwater, a scream in outer space. In Shane's ears, the rapture had already descended, flooding the cavities with a permanent ring and the feeling of flowing water.

He wasn't underwater.

The feeling persisted nevertheless.

The unrelenting rain pounding down on his face, matting his soaked hair to his face. A distant crackle could be heard somewhere in the distance. Thunder.

A jolt to his body. Someone jostling his shoulder that was sagging limply from its socket. A kick to his legs as they buckled, a strong, fierce grip burning into his skin through his thin sweater.

⁶ " _Se urli, ti becchi il proiettile d'argento!_ " a man's voice hissed in his ear.

Nausea bloomed in Shane's stomach, pushing its way out of his esophagus. He leaned over, retching, the ground below him a blue of black and grey, blue spots floating over his field of vision.

More yelling transpired, hardly breaking through the strong winds in the air. Shane's captor ordered something he couldn't discern as he lay boneless in the man's grip.

"What?" someone called after him.

"Bring him to the _Don!_ " he barked.

Before he knew it, Shane was getting hoisted into a black van with tinted windows, strongly reminiscent of the one in Neo's bug scene in The Matrix. Outside, the limp, dead body was shuffled into the car trunk, bloated skin nearly catching on the lid of the car. As Shane's vision swam, he caught a glimpse at his captor, who's lap his head rested it. The man had a short crew cut, a finely pressed suit and black wraparound sunglasses obscuring his eyes.

_Like the agents from the Matrix_ , Shane thought blearily.

The man leaned in close, a single drop of blood smudged across his cheek rough with stubble:

"Don't squeak," he breathed hotly, "you know what squeaks?"

Shane just groaned, the sound disembodied and foreign to his still-swimming ears.

"—A rat," the man continued.

"Do you know what we do with the rats in this business, Shanedj?"

The wind howled angrily outside.

_Like the outside was trying to get in_ , he thought.

The man leaned into the shell of his ear, hot breath fanning against his neck,

_"We kill them."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 6\. "Se urli, ti becchi il proiettile d'argento!": Translates directly to: "If you scream, you get the silver bullet!" or "If you scream, [w]e kill you."


	4. With Dawn, Comes a New Day (and a Million More Ways to Lie)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which being in a mob is a lot like being in a high-stakes frat house, save for the murder.
> 
> (*Slight emetophobia warning for this chapter, skip to below the cut to avoid triggers <3)

Shane awoke with a start, heart hammering in his chest, wracking a shuddery hum throughout his body. His fingers gripped into the sheets, nearly tearing them, sinking into the fabric savagely as he willed the room to stop spinning.

A familiar acid building up in his throat.

_C'mon, push it down. It's fine, push it down, push it d—_

Shane didn't get to finish his thought before his limbs moved on their own volition and raw instinct, propelling him forward as all the blood struggled to rush to his extremities. He took about two steps before his knees buckled, knocking him into the side of the wall in his haste.

He cursed under his breath, ⁷ _"Che palle!"_

He smacked a hand tightly over his mouth and limped to the ensuite, kicking the seat up before sinking onto the cold marble floor and retching drily into the toilet.

He moaned defeatedly, ⁸ _"Porca miseria."_

One of his associates came into the room, barreling the tip of his shoe into the dead center of Shane's shoulder blades, nudging his nose practically into the ivory of the lid. Thank God for the _Capo_ demanding immaculate upkeep of every corner and crevice the room, or Shane would have been thoroughly disgusted.

"Eh! C.C., empty your guts someplace else, I gotta take a leak."

Shane swallowed, wincing at the sharp taste. He stumbled up to his feet clumsily, brandishing his toothbrush and leaving hastily.

_Just another day_ , he sighed.

* * *

One perk of being in the Mob was decent meals. Having prime rib for two meals a day when he'd otherwise only be able to afford flank on his struggling recently-out-of college budget, weighed down with student debt, was one of the few blessings of this place. All gathered around the polished mahogany wood table, it almost felt like _la Famiglia_ was a real family. Of course, table disputes would sometimes lead to someone staring down the barrel of a gun, but Shane reckons had he grown up in Texas, he'd have felt right at home.

"Aho! C.C." the _Don_ said from his seat at the head of the table, "that Ryan Bergara...where is he?"

Shane nearly choked on his water, clearing his throat as inconspicuously as possible as all eyes locked onto him. He straightened the hem of his suit and then spoke evenly,  
⁹ "I granted him a _pass_."

Horrified expressions came upon the faces of his associates mixed with the unmistakable trill of anticipation. The faces of individuals who expect someone to get their brains blown out in front of them.

_¹⁰ "Solo questo una volta,"_ Shane continued, trying to keep his composure self-assured, ¹¹ _"lo ho senso morale."_

The _Don_ leaned back in his seat, sighing, "C.C., in this _Cosa Nostra_ , it is expected you always operate for the benefit of _la Famiglia_ , you understand?"

C.C. nodded deftly, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat, "I understand, _Capo_."

The boss clapped the desk, signaling dismissal, ¹² _"Questo è tutto."_

Shane's associates filed out the door, as he followed, lagging slightly behind.

"And C.C.?" the boss started, a warning cadence to his voice, his hand firm on his forearm.

"Yes?"

He looked sternly into his eyes, "If you ever set eyes on that Bergara fellow again in this lifetime, or the next..."

He waited with bated breath.

"—you shoot him dead on site."

Shane gulped.

_¹³"Ci siamo capiti, C.C.?"_

Shane nodded, ¹⁴ _"Ci siamo capiti, Don."_

He hoped the _Capo_ didn't notice his heart hammering in his chest or the way his eyes quickly darted to the left, the shuffle of his feet, the fiddle of his hands.

Shane knew he was lying, but for his sake and Ryan's sake, he sure as hell hoped that he and the man would never cross paths again so they didn't have to find out just what lengths ' _C.C.'_ would go to protect his life.

One way or another, it would surely end in blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 7\. "Che palle!": literally translating to 'what balls!', 'che palle!' is a strong, vulgar expression of discontent, the English equivalent being 'Balls!' or 'Bollox!'
> 
> 8\. "Porca Miseria": The phrase means literally 'pork poverty', from porco (pig) and miseria (poverty). More figuratively it's the equivalent of 'for god's sake', an American English 'goddammit' or a British 'bloody hell'.
> 
> 9\. "Pass": To grant someone a reprieve from a death warrant (in the Mafia).
> 
> 10."Solo questo una volta": "Only this once"
> 
> 11\. "lo ho senso morale.": "I have moral(s) (sense)/ I have a moral code"
> 
> 12\. "Questo è tutto": "That's all"/ "That will be all"
> 
> 13\. "Ci siamo capiti, C.C.?": "Have we understood each other, C.C.?"/ "Are we understood, C.C.?"
> 
> 14\. "Ci siamo capiti, Don.": "We have understood each other, Don"/ "We are understood, Don."


	5. This Just In: a Man Will Risk His Life to Scorn the Use of a Pun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Shane receives an unprecedented call from an old acquaintance

It was a full five days before Ryan called him again.

"C.C., re-directing a call over to your personal line," the secretary called, poking her head through the office door, glossed red lips well versed in the business after years of deftly navigating a clandestine field of work.

"I have a personal line?" Shane mused quietly to himself, furrowing his brows.

He picked up the black phone from the base, absentmindedly brushing off a spec of dust settled on the surface with a swipe of his pinky finger as he reached out and pressed the blinking red button, letting the call through. In his six months of working there, not once had the phone trilled for him. He was starting to think the _Capo_ took it off the line or something of the like.

_Guess I was wrong_ , he shrugged, wondering who could possibly be calling. Maybe the boss was starting to finally trust him more after that Bergara deal. Shane smiled to himself, reclining in his seat and taking in a breath of air that smelled like desk polish and leather conditioner. He could practically feel the upgraded office he would surely get once he moved up the ranks, a better chair, a bigger de—

A voice crackled through the receiver as the call came through.

Something was mumbled on the other end.

"Excuse me, could you please repeat that?" Shane asked, brows furrowed in concentration as he balanced the phone between his shoulder and ear, hand fumbling for a pen.

"I said— was that a fucking _pun?_ " the voice said. Shane couldn't quite place the voice, but it sounded familiar, the exasperated cadence of it, the dramatic lilt.

"I'm sorry, sir, I can't say I understand."

There was a hefty, drawn-out sigh on the other end, prompting feedback to ring in his ear. Shane winced slightly, properly confused, starting to think it was a prank call. The misfortune of that kid, to pick a literal Mafia line to prank call. Shane didn't know of any sleepover party massacres occurring at the hands of this establishment, and he sure as hell didn't want this phone call to be a catalyst for the first one in history. Jesus, how many pre-pubescent dudes would he have to cover for?

"When you said 'it's nice you think highly of yourself'—-was that a goddamn short joke?"

Shane squinted for a second before the pouty tone registered in his brain, along with the sliver of conversation re-enacted just now. He huffed out a laugh to himself, shifting in his seat.

"You're just realizing that now?"

Silence lay steady on the other end of the line. Had he not met the man already, he would have thought he hung up, but knowing him, he smirked, practically seeing the pout across the other end.

"You bastard."

"Did you call me just to say that?"

More pointed silence.

"Yes."

Shane shot a wary glance at his closed door, his shuttered windows, lowering his voice and folding his body closer to the line as if it would help make the conversation more surreptitious.

"Look, Bergara. I thought I told you to stay away."

"I thought I told you to stop being seven feet tall. Looks like we're both shit out of luck, eh, C.C.?"

Shane chuckled softly into the receiver, "Goodbye Ryan."

Protests bubbled up on the other end of the line, but Shane dropped the phone onto the hook, picking it up and then placing it down again, the distant ring puttering out in the air.

_Silence._

Shane sighed. It was going to be a long week.


	6. Ryan Hasn't Gotten Laid For Five Months and It's All Very Funny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ryan severely regrets choosing a white man as a roommate.

Ryan lay flopped on his couch, the still-ringing phone pressed stubbornly between his ear and shoulder like it was an extension of his body. It would almost be a funny sight if this whole situation wasn't so goddamn infuriating. What's a guy gotta do to talk to someone for more than five minutes? It was absurd.

"Either I'm having a stroke or you're being an annoying fuck," one of Ryan's roommates remarked, walking into the room, hearing the annoying trill of the line.

"Always the poet, huh, Teej?"

"Seriously, you've been practically attached to that thing since like, Wednesday. Sometimes I come in and just see you staring at it."

Ryan blushed furiously, his face slowly but surely turning into a solid desert of pink. He hadn't been _staring_ at it, just...thinking...while looking at it for a prolonged, sustained amount of time. Okay, maybe he was staring a little bit, but it wasn't a big deal, an indignant remark he voiced to T.J.

"Seriously, though, man. You're okay right?" T.J. asked tentatively, with the grace of a man trying to navigate a minefield, sounding entirely too uncomfortable at the notion that Ryan might say that he's not, in fact, okay.

Ryan scoffed, trying to nonchalantly hide the phone against the cushions, "I'm fine, Marchbank, I'm not having a mental break or something, if that's what you're insinuating."

"Well, now that my obligatory sympathetic gesture has been dealt with, I'm not gonna mince words here."

"Oh, God."

T.J. sipped a Coca Cola, leaning against the doorjamb. He absentmindedly drew something indiscernible on the condensation of the can, run-off sliding down his fingers as little droplets of ice. He dipped into the cooler chilling on the kitchen, tossing Ryan a can for himself. He caught it on instinct, even with the weird trajectory angle; muscle memory from years of competitive basketball.

"Well, who is she, then?"

"What?" Ryan gaped dumbly.

T.J. rolled his eyes, "Jesus, Bergara, how have you ever gotten laid?"

"Well I'm sorry, T.J., there's usually significantly less talking as a precursor to those endeavors."

"Always the gentleman, huh, Ryan Bergara?"

Ryan jutted his chin up in indignation, "When it counts."

T.J. took a swig of his drink, fingers drumming restlessly on the tin sides, "As I was saying— you've been practically glued to that thing for five days now, all secretive and—" he waved his hands in a gesture that Ryan speculated was supposed to indicate the state of his psyche, "—batty. Hell, the last time I saw you like this was either when Micki broke her leg last summer or when you and Helen were still together, which was..."

Ryan gritted his teeth, the can crunching pointedly beneath his hold, etching dimples into the malleable tin, "Five months and..."

Ryan's mind drew a blank. God, that was a first. Not so long ago in the ever-weaving tapestry of time, he had retained the ever-persistent knowledge of every single day and hour since he and Helen had...amicably ended things. Mostly amicably, anyway.

Teej caught his drift, "Hey, the pause is good. Unless all that weed is finally catching up to you, I'd say this is a sign of improvement."

He slapped Ryan's shoulder, jolting him out of his haze.

T.J. said his usual white-man-exiting cue of 'welp,' and turned on his heel to leave, his open-cut tank top moving with him as he sauntered out.

"C.C," Ryan blurted out suddenly, surprising even himself.

Teej turned to face him again, shifting his weight pointlessly, "Huh?"

Well, he already committed to it, might as well die on this hill too.

"C.C.," he repeated, parroting his words in the brief moment where his mouth and brain crossed paths, losing all inhibitions in the process, "the person I'm talking to...their name is C.C."

"C.C," T.J. mused, "that's a heartbreaker name if I've ever heard one. It'd explain why you've been laying on that couch like a lovesick puppy all weekend."

Ryan's mouth dropped open, eyebrows reaching new heights on his forehead, nose scrunched up as if it too, was trying to repel the shit that was every word that came out of T.J.'s mouth, ever, but especially now.

"I'm not a lovesick puppy!"

"Mmm," he said, water-falling the last few drops into his mouth before crushing the can in his hands, tossing it into the trash behind him, over his shoulder.

Ryan hated that it landed perfectly.

"That's why you're totally not drawing a heart on the condensation of your Coca Cola can, right?"

"What? I'm not—" Ryan started to protest, mouth falling shut as he realized he, in fact, was doing that, "I wasn't trying to!"

T.J. made a 'whatever you say,' face, one Ryan was well accustomed to, "That's even worse, dude."

"Yeah, yeah, Teej, don't ya got nits to pick out of your beard or some shit?"

T.J. laughed, unaffected, "Alright, bud, I'll get out of your hair."

_Thank fucking God._

"Just—-Ryan?"

A sincere look came over his eyes. Well, as sincere as a man like T.J. could possibly be.

"I'm happy for you man. This C.C. seems like a real character. I got a feeling about this one, I can't really tell ya why."

_Yeah_ , Ryan thought, _now, if only the bastard would just co-operate._

Ryan never put this much effort into chasing his one night stands, and this guy wasn't even one! They hadn't even gotten to first base— not like that was Ryan's intention— in fact, they had argued! That would have to place them at least a minus-five base.

Well, maybe not, if in the right context.

Ryan scoffed at himself, popping open the tab of his soda. He swiped away the unintentional heart doodle with his pinky finger and turned on a re-run of the latest _Laker's_ game. Ryan picked up the phone, and he set it down on the hook; the persistent hum dissipating, leaving Ryan with only the sounds of the T.V, and his own relentless thoughts.


	7. Playing Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Shane comes face to face with a man by the name of Ricky Goldsworth.

Jarring electric lights lay headily within the room, casting a certain kind of gaudy ambiance in the atmosphere.

Shane blinked blearily, seeing neon spheres flash behind the lids of his eyes, boring into his retinas, sparking his hardwiring like a faulty cable. Jazz music provided a profound timbre, a certain depth to the room. Though, it could hardly be heard over the rough laughter of residents flocking to this little pocket of commotion. The smell of expensive cigars permeated the air, singing his nostrils as the rich scent enveloped him, smoke seeping into his skin, the culprit lying between the two loose fingers of his own boss. The ambiance of the room was discordant, unnerving. Not the place for a run-of-the-mill citizen, certainly not the place for Shane. Shane mulled this over to himself in a miserable fashion as his lip lay cooling against the thick ice cubes at the bottom of his glass, the last dredges of alcohol falling against his tongue unceremoniously. His hands shook slightly, jarring the contents, a cacophony of clanking sounds echoing throughout the surrounding area, quickly swallowed by the overwhelming weight of the air.

Shane swallowed, mouth feeling cottony and binding to the touch. Whiskey dripped slowly down his esophagus, burning his throat ever so slightly, but the taste was nice. Expensive. Everything was, Shane remarked, catching sight of the Capo's thick ring, clunky amber jewel winking at him under the chandelier lights. The Capo did not have a wife- it was against the rules. You are married to your duties to the _Cosa Nostra_ , he had said. But he did keep around the occasional burlesque-looking woman or the rare boy toy. The latter of the two comprised one of the many things the recruits were sworn to secrecy over.

Today, he had a striker with him. Lips, matchstick red, eyes shadowed the color of ash. On her high cheekbones, a coral blush, complemented by her angular jaw, graceful nose, and caramel locks that spilled over in Hollywood curls over her brassiere. She lay poised over his lap, ruby red high heels shining like lacquered candy in the light, black corset dress spilling towards the ground, lace detailing fishnet-ing her long legs.Her emerald eyes peeked out under dark, thick lashes, mouth agape in a graceful laugh as she stroked her hand over the Boss' chest. When she glanced over at him, Shane could see the gold veins in her irises, like impure turquoise.

She walked, breathed, and exuded class. A million dollar woman, surrounded by men with gross amounts of power, unfathomable to anyone lucky enough to never seen the ramifications of it firsthand.

Shane had never felt so out of place, and he had grown up as a closeted bisexual in 80's Illinois.

He was about to find some excuse to get some fresh air, or hop on over to the bathroom to burn his allocated five minutes of temporary reprieve when the secretary's voice spoke into his ear:

"Mister Tinsley, you've been summoned by a fella of the name Mister Goldsworth...Rick Goldsworth, sir."

Shane immediately sat up straighter, fingers nursing the chip in his ear in an attempt to hear better over the incessant bumble of the casino.

"Thanks..." he started, before realizing with a tinge of guilt he didn't know her name, "where am I due?"

"Actually, right where you are, sir, believe it or not. Your client appears to have intentionally met you here in efforts to talk to you. He's likely of large status if he knows the whereabouts of the _Cosa Nostra_."

_A big client?_ Shane wondered, baffled. He genuinely couldn't see his boss handing him the management of the big fish in the pond, not now, not when he was under close surveillance.

He peered over at his boss, making a signal to indicate he was taking a call—taking a client really—but the _Capo_ didn't need to know that, not yet.

The aged man regarded him with a steely gaze over his playing cards, dismissing him with a nod of his chin.

Shane exhaled, shoulders dropping as he moved out of the room, speaking into his trusty earpiece, "Alright, whereabouts is this client?" Shane asked in a low voice. Most of the people here were Mafiasos, but precautionary measures were still of utmost importance.

"Just at the bar, Mister Tinsley."

Shane peered over to the mahogany bar table, shining brightly under the sparkling chandeliers emitting a soft golden light. There, poised on a stool, Shane spotted a man's broad shoulders cloaked in a black jacket, jewelry glittering on his fingers that lay wrapped around a crystal glass.

He took a sharp inhale through his nose and made himself seen. As he crossed the room, he slunk into the seat adjacent to his client's.

"Mister Goldsworth?" he asked, his outstretched palm tarrying in the air as he waited for the man to turn towards him.

"Mister Tinsley, we meet again."

"Again—" he started to ask, his voice cut off as the man turned around, clasping his hand around Shane's.

_Ryan Bergara._

His normally unruly black curls were slicked back off his head, a single stubborn curl hanging down in the middle of his forehead. Flashy rings were slipped over his knuckles, his stubble clean and neat. He would almost pass in the atmosphere, but the skipped button on his satin dress shirt was a dead give away.

"What are you doing here? _How_ are you here?" Shane gaped, his hand— still intertwined with Ryan's— going clammy in his grip, but he couldn't bring himself to drop it.

Ryan smiled, "Nice to see you too, Long Legs."

He waved over the barista with a two-fingered signal, the employee sliding over two glasses of ambery-brown bourbon. Ryan nudged one over to Shane, taking a sip of his own.

Shane regarded him, speechless.

"You said you were more of a whiskey guy," Ryan started in a terrible imitation of a drawl, "this meet your standards?"

Shane took a sip, trying to push down the blush that was crawling towards his cheeks, egged on by the alcohol and Ryan's feigned confidence. Utterly transparent, but endearing.

"I've had better," he said nonchalantly.

"That how you talk to all your dates, C.C.? I'm starting to lose sympathy for you. Evidence is piling up that your beaus are deterred by more than just the fact they'd need a step-stool to kiss ya."

Maybe Ryan was better at this than he thought.

All the blood rushed to his cheeks unapologetically. Well, at least it wasn't heading south; Shane might never recover if he ever were to get it up for an ex-frat.

"We're not on a date, Ryan."

Ryan's eyes glimmered, "Then why are you holding my hand?"

Shane jerked so viscerally, he nearly fell out of his barstool. Ryan—the bastard— laughed.

"Now, now, Tinsley. It's a bit too early to be stumbling off of chairs, isn't it? I didn't know you were such a lightweight."

Shane pressed his palms flat against his dress-shirt, smoothing it down instinctively.

"Oh, so you get a suit and forget how to act, huh?"

"I don't see you complaining."

"Consider a complaint filed."

"Take it up with my manager," Ryan— or rather, _Ricky_ retorted.

" _I_ am your manager."

Ryan's eyebrows raised at that, his glass clinking as he took a sip, side-eying Shane, who quickly regretted his hasty words.

"Kinky, I like how you roll, Tinsley."

Shane's whole body shuddered with heat, sweat rolling down his side. He cleared his throat; If Ryan could play the unbothered game, so could he.

"Bold words for a man who couldn't even button his shirt right."

Ryan glanced down at his shirt, glass jarring precariously.

_You can take a man out of a frat house_...Shane's mind trailed off.

"Ah, shit, damn it, T.J.!" Ryan muttered under his breath.

"T.J. the name of your hookup, or have you forgot my name already?"

Ryan's fingers fumbled with his shirt, "My roommate...goddammit!" he sighed in defeat as the silky material evaded his grip.

"Let me help," Shane muttered, fingers deftly righting the button undone over the middle of his chest in a valiant effort to abate his useless counterpart's whines, "Jesus, can't take you anywhere, huh?"

"You say that as if you actually took me anywhere," Ryan mumbled, almost petulantly, "had to hack an entire system to track you down for a drink."

"So that's how you found me?" Shane asked, hand instinctively smoothing down Ryan's shirt after fixing the button.

They both flushed slightly, Shane casually moving away.

"Well, yeah, how else would I have done it?"

"I don't know. Maybe follow my car?"

"I don't know your license plate."

"Well I didn't know you had FBI level tracking skills, and I figured one was more likely than the other."

Ryan wheezed, lips pulled taut over the rim of his glass in a careful effort not to spill it on himself.

Shane followed suit. With the drink, that is, not the laughter. Though, really, he was getting to the point of buzzed where he was bordering on hysterics.

_Maybe the third shot of whiskey was a bad idea_ , Shane thought, casually bringing his pointer and middle finger to his wrist, checking his pulse.

"Shut up, Long Legs," Ryan murmured, shaking his bowed head, a smile pulling at his face.

"This is expensive whiskey," Shane remarked softly, reading the impressive label on the bottle.

"Yeah, spent nearly half my pay-cheque on it," Ryan grinned, nodding at the bill.

Shane examined the piece of laminated paper, digging in his pocket for his wallet, filled with a small allowance from the Boss, "Here, let me pay for it."

"Oh, what a gentleman you are, Tinsley. I appreciate it, but no. Repay a man by entertaining him with a conversation, will ya?"

"Ryan, _Ricky_ , I really should go—" Shane started.

"Tinsley, just...just a little while, alright?" Ryan coaxed him.

Shane sighed, defeated, relaxing his shoulders slightly, too inebriated and exhausted to protest, "Alright."

"See? Wasn't so hard. You know you don't have to play hard to get all the time. A guy becomes property of the Mafia and suddenly he 'can't go out,' because he 'might get you killed,'" Ryan complained, making wild gestures with his hands, "ugh, _men_."

Shane scoffed, a shaky laugh escaping his lips as he smiled inadvertently. Ryan grinned back triumphantly, cocking his head.

"So, whaddya say, Tinsley, wanna ditch this joint?"

Shane nearly choked on his whiskey, spluttering out a nonplussed laugh, "Real smooth, Bergara. You seem to be forgetting that I'm not one of your hookups."

Ryan just stared at him, looking vexed.

"You...you do know that, right?" Shane clarified, a teasing lilt present in his voice, though the question was, to some degree, genuine.

"Of course I know that you idiot!"

"Uhuh."

Ryan frowned, eyebrows furrowed in this adorable way that made Shane scorn his stomach for fluttering and pray that the alcohol to let him forget it ever happened the next day.

"Besides," he said, tilting his glass absentmindedly, "I'm being tracked."

"You're _what?_ "

"Tracked. What? You think I become property of the Mafia and the only precautionary measure they would take is asking me to cooperate?"

Ryan looked unnerved, mouth twitching, "What, so they have a microchip on you or something?"

"No, not yet at least."

"Jesus."

Shane reached his hand out across the table, noticing how Ryan's fingers almost instinctively met his before the smaller man recoiled, realizing his fault. If Shane had a little trouble speaking after that, no one had to know.

"See this watch?" he asked.

Ryan wheezed, "Yes, we know, Long Legs, you're Mister Money Bags."

Shane's eyes crinkled as he rolled his eyes, "No, you dolt; there's some kinda GPS system in here. If I go too far from my boss in an uncharted area, he gets this...alarm. I don't know, but I know enough about the business to not dream of testing the boundaries."

Ryan looked utterly unbothered, smiling all toothily up at him, "Oh, just give it to me then."

"Ryan, the Mob has already got a shoot-on-site warning issued for you, you're not going to take my watch that alerts the boss exactly where you are."

Ryan regarded him with a scrunched up face, side-eyeing the other side of the room as to look for backup, "Believe it or not, I'm not a complete imbecile, Tinsley. Just...trust me, alright?"

Shane's reasonable side made a figurative shrug inside his psyche, more easily goaded into such endeavors with some liquid courage running through his veins. He held his arm out, ignoring the almost painful— yet addictive sting he felt as Ryan's surprisingly soft fingers unclasped the watch from around his wrist, brushing up against his skin gently. The moment felt almost too intimate, and Shane flushed slightly, feeling naked under the appraising gaze of literally no one. Feeling vulnerable in the state of just being.

And that was a very dangerous thing.

Ryan fiddled with the watch, muttering to himself. He paused, digging a small screwdriver out of his pocket.

_Nerd_ , Shane thought with a smile.

He deftly unscrewed the tiny metal caps locking the screen into place, ordering "Hold your hand out."

Shane complied clammy palms awaiting the soft weight of the four bolts, reminding him of when he used to help his dad change the tires on the car.

_"Keep your hand steady, Shanedj! Steady!"_

That was the second time Shane made a subliminal connection between his relationship with Ryan and his dad in the past few days. _God, he had better not be developing a complex._

Ryan made a triumphant sound at the back of his throat as the top popped open.

"Ahah! See, that's the tracking system. I'm not gonna try to take it out in case it sets something off, but there is something I can do..."

Shane frowns, confused as Ryan waves the bartender over, ordering a canned beer.

"Ryan now is not the time to drink."

His short companion rolled his eyes, holding eye contact as he downed the whole thing in a true frat boy fashion, biting the bottom of the can and chugging it from there. Shane tried not to look too impressed as his Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. He stared at him pointedly as he peeled a strip of the can off from the indent, holding it in his palm.

"Aluminum foil. It's a transmission jammer— blocks electromagnetic waves, rendering the GPS obsolete," Ryan said as casually as anyone else might mention the weather, shaping the foil over the small cubed tracker.

"You ever been in an industrial building, Tinsley?" Ryan prompted, grunting under his breath as he fashioned the device, "If you have, you'll know that the connection is really shitty. It's just like that. It's called a Faraday Cage."

Shane worried at his bottom lip, the gesture rousing some kind of impressed feeling towards the man. Maybe Ryan was smarter than he gave him credit for. Shane tried to express this in a smart way, but in his slightly slowed state, what really came out was a lame,

"How d'you know all this?"

Ryan smiled anyways, plucking the screws from his still outstretched hands and fastening them back into the watch, "I'm a film student minoring in computer science," he said modestly, almost excessively so, "er— well, not this year anyway. I took a gap year after the second one."

"How come?" Shane blurted out, "I mean, you've obviously got the smarts for it."

As soon as he spotted the embarrassed look crossing Ryan's face, he immediately regretted asking. Some kind of conglomeration of flattery and shame was present in the blush across his cheeks.

"I...well, my girlfriend and I were having problems. We've been together for four years...well, _were_ , anyway. I took the year off to get my head straight, not sure if I'm doing too good a job of it."

Shane suddenly felt awkward in the thickness of the air, "I'm sorry, Ry—"

"Oh, don't worry!" the man hurriedly assured him, "she got a new guy, and look at me: I'm property of the Mafia! Can't really beat that, huh? I'll bet that nobody in the world wants anyone more than the Mob wants me right now, right?"

Ryan grinned toothily, nonchalantly. Although Shane strongly suspected some kind of sadness lurked behind the facade, he decided to play into the rouse.

"You're right, Bergara; you're a wanted man," Shane chuckled, dipping his head, "but a free one still, you know."

Ryan smiled bittersweetly, "Oh, I don't know about that, C.C."

Before Shane could press any further, Ryan patted his arm, "You're all set, Tinsel Boy."

"Wha—" Shane laughed, "don't call me that."

"I know that can't be your real name, you lummox," Ryan grinned, "but why would you pick 'C.C Tinsley' of all pseudonyms? You sound like some kind of Christmas villain."

"Okay, ' _Ricky Goldsworth.'_ "

"It's a better name than yours!"

"Uhuh, keep telling yourself that, baby."

Shane hadn't meant to say the pet name, but his tongue— languid and heavy from the drinking, did little to stop his Freudian slip.

Ryan laughed nervously, "S-shut up, Long Legs, and don't call me baby!"

Shane snorted to himself, fiddling with the watch on his wrist. He should be leaving soon before his boss gets suspicious, or all efforts to protect Ryan will be in vain. A slow song came over the speakers, rousing Ryan from his seat. Shane gazed with confused interest as his bothersome acquaintance held out his hand.

"Whaddya say, Tinsley? Wanna show a man how smooth those long legs are?"

"W-what?" Shane stuttered dumbly.

Ryan rolled his eyes, "Do you wanna dance with me?"

Maybe it was alcohol, or the common sense flooding back, or the ever-looming threat of the _Capo_ intruding on this little slice of normalcy in Shane's life, but he found himself adamantly shaking his head, seemingly on its own accord.

"Never gonna happen, Bergara."

Ryan's mood appeared to be only slightly dampened by the lighthearted rebuke, looking more annoyed than anything, "You're no fun, Tinsley."

"Yeah, yeah. 'Heard that one before."

Ryan watched as he slunk out of the stool, long limbs and all, "You're leaving so soon?"

"Ryan, I feel like we have this conversation every time; unless you wanna be killed, yes, yes I am."

The short man frowned, disappointment crossing his face.

Shane felt like an asshole.

"Look, man," Shane started, sighing, "if you know it's gonna end the same way every time, why are you so stubbornly pursuing it?"

Ryan smiled, "Well, Tinsley, tell me: if I leave you alone, where's the fun in that?"

Shane laughed despite himself, "Alright, Bergara. But seriously, you're lucky you got this far. If I were you, I'd quit while I was ahead."

He could feel Ryan's contemplative gaze on him as he strode out of the room, desperate to leave the stuffy room and increasing pressure of the situation behind him.

He could only hope Ryan would choose to do the same.


	8. In Which Ryan Definitely Didn't See a UFO and Ned Supports Bisexuals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter in which everything is accurate to reality.

Ryan walked the long and dim pathway home, silhouettes of trees looking imposing as they blended charcoal grey against the dark blue sky. Lights passed overhead, and briefly, Ryan wondered if they were UFO's, before dismissing his mind's racing thoughts.

_Shane would have scoffed at me_ , he remarked to himself, huffing out a laugh in the cool summer air.

Veiled wisps of white fog enveloped branches, its sprawling limbs reminiscent of that of a ghost or a spirit. Ryan felt sweat bead down his forehead, walking as fast as a man could with the heavy thrum of whiskey weighing his legs down like sandbags to the Earth. His coordination was shot, nearly losing his balance on more than one occasion trekking the rough pavement. When their shared house finally came into view, he leaned heavily against the door, hardly turning the key in the lock before falling backward onto the floor next to the couch Ned Fulmer—his other roommate, lay sprawled across. Brewski in hand, eyes fluttered shut.

The blond man sighed, "Girls."

Ryan sighed in turn, "Boys."

Ned furrowed his brows, frowning at the ceiling as if the stucco caused all his woes.

"Having trouble with Ariel again?" Ryan inquired, already knowing the answer. Ned talked about the blonde girl more than soccer—a truly impressive feat.

"Ugh— yes. I can't seem to get her to talk to me..." he sighed, "well, I do tall to her, but she never initiates it, you know?"

"Believe me," Ryan wheezed, the fog lifting slightly as he lay on the ground, "I know."

Ned stretched, sitting up, kicking a soccer ball smoothly between his feet, "You're not that much shorter than me, dude. You can't be having that much trouble in the dating game."

Ryan laughed, the sound echoing throughout the room, "Oh, you have no idea."

"Elaborate."

"Can't say that I can, bud."

"Well," Ned shrugged, patting his shoulder before he ambled out of the room, "I suppose we all have our secrets."

Ryan clutched the phone close to his beating chest.

_"Yeah, I guess we do."_


	9. Substantial Proof

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ryan and Shane argue about ghosts as normal, except in this universe, Shane is aiding in the murder of a man all the while.

Static crackled on the other end of the line, breaking up the indignant arguing through the receiver.

"Look, Bergara, all I'm sayin' is that it's vastly more likely that you're scratchin' yourself in your sleep than a demon being the cause."

Shane could practically hear the sound of Ryan rolling his eyes through the line as if he was in any way the one being illogical here.

"There are multiple authentic, undeniable pieces of evidence proving spirits exist!"

"Sure there is, Ryan."

A huff exhaling in his ear.

A pause.

"S-shut up, Long Legs."

"Hey, don't shoot me, dude, I just think if you're gonna say something has factual evidence, maybe present it instead of beating around the bush!" Shane smiled, reclining in his chair.

"There is factual evid—you're just an asshole skeptic who doesn't want to believe in anything beyond your tiny scope of reality!" Ryan enthused.

Shane heard footfalls on the other end of the line— the small little man no doubt pacing the floor as he tried to sway him into believing air was a sentient being. And capable of inflicting harm upon real, living, breathing humans at that.

Shane laughed, amused by the ex-frat's silly antics— a welcome distraction from the painful regime of everyday life. Talking to the small believer made him almost forget he was tracking down a man to be executed.

Shane clicked out of the tab, granting himself temporary respite from the gory details.

"Believe me, I think it's inspiring you can hold onto your dreams this well. I mean, look at how determined you are to call me. Which reminds me, this is about the time I mandatorily remind you that really, you shouldn't be calling me."

"So you've told me," Ryan said, unbothered.

"Is it even worth me reminding you?"

"You do know I'm just gonna do it again, right?"

"I could block your number."

"But you haven't."

Shane bit his lip, smiling, "Touché."

The aura of smugness was far too thick of Ryan's end of the line, so he quickly added, "But then again, you're fucking relentless. I'm worried if I block your number, you'll show up at my boss' door and demand to see me and get us both killed on the spot."

Ryan wheezed, the sound crackling through the receiver, "I'm honored you think I care enough to put my life on the line to talk to you, Long Legs."

"But—that's literally what you're doing right now!" Shane hissed into the microphone of his earpiece, sparing a glance at the door before adding, "—Jackass."

"Yeah, yeah, as if that's what's happening here. Sure you're not just projecting? 'Cause apparently, in your fantasy I've got a death warrant out for me and am madly in love with you."

"And in your fantasy, the wind is ghosts and aliens are gonna come down to Earth and probe our asses."

"There is substantial proof, Tinsley!"

"Goodbye, Ryan."

A pause. Shuffling sounds on the other end. Then a faint, almost shy:

"You'll call again?"

Shane smiled, astounded at how fast Ryan's cadence could change on a dime. Petulant, then almost pleading. It was a welcome— if exasperating trope.

"Look who's desperate now, huh?"

"S-shut up, Long Legs."

_"Goodbye, Ricky."_


	10. The Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Shane receives an unnerving phone call and a jarring reality check.

Shane lost count of the number of times him and Ryan had spoken in the past week or so. He'd lost count after the first five times.

An uneasy conglomeration of guilt and premeditated anxiety always erupted in some kind of molotov cocktail in his gut in the wake of the steady hum of the receiver. He kept doing it anyway. Kept picking up the damn phone. And every goddamn time he told that Ryan Bergara the comprehensive, ever-growing list of reasons he needs to quit it, and every time, he simply tells Shane to hang up the phone. Every time, Shane makes the decision to pick up, to entertain his new acquaintance who was turning out to be some weird silhouette of a friend. It was addictive, it was as if his fingers moved on their own volition. His mind slams the brakes while his instincts barrel ahead, leaving him choking on the smoke left behind.

In other words, he was utterly fucked.

He knew that he knew from the second the man called back that he was in it. He was in deep shit. He was already a few feet into an eroding pit and sinking fast. The mix of his poor impulse control and desperation for some semblance of human contact certainly didn't help matters, in fact, they were likely the culprits. Not to discredit Ryan's personality, of course. Shane had to hand it to him; despite their starkly contrasting personalities, he likely would have become his friend anyway, had they been under different circumstances. They couldn't be more different; Shane, a diehard skeptic hardened by months of a grueling regime, Ryan, a believer who's biggest issues were resolving the slight fender bender on his car he got after having one too many brewskis. Shane, a gangly, 'lummox' of a man who has to duck to fit under most doorways. Ryan, a 5'9 power-pack with an ego to compensate for his vertical deficit. Shane, possessing common sense and a respect for physics. Ryan, embodying precisely neither of those qualities.

What's worse? Every single goddamn time Shane thought about how absolutely ridiculous Ryan was, his high school science teacher's voice echoed in his mind, _"The law of repulsion states that opposite forces attract."_

For once in his life— Shane damned physics.

So, really. Between their unconsolable differences, his current situation, and Ryan being a stubborn fuck with no regard for his life, Shane was utterly screwed. He was screwed before he met Ryan, the moment he walked into that alleyway that fateful spring evening.He was screwed when he first stepped foot in Ryan's house. He was screwed the second he met Ryan's glazed eyes in that ostentatious bar and felt his heart thrum in his chest, not drunk enough to blame the alcohol.

But by God, he had never been more screwed than the moment a call came through his earpiece, expecting Ryan, and instead, being met with a crackling silence.

The air turned heavy, Shane's skin crawled and turned clammy despite the coolness of the room. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up straight. Acid reflux crawling it's way up his throat, singing a crater in his chest, where his heart fell through and landed on the floor with a sickening _thud_. His fingers trembled on the receiver.

More static, then a low voice.

_"You shouldn't have done that, Shanedj. Or should I say Tinsley? That's what you go by, isn't it?"_

The tone was unmoved. Dead. Throaty and toneless and so fucking horrifying, striking a kind of heavy dread in Shane's heart he didn't know he could feel.

The call ended there, or perhaps it didn't. He could hardly focus on anything but the blood swimming in his ears and his stomach being yanked down, down, down by an anchor. It was all he could do to gaze blearily at the phone on his desk as the world went dark around him.

_"You shouldn't have done that, Shanedj."_


	11. Things Fade So Quickly in the Summertime (Few Can Take the Heat)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shane isn't the only one with a haunted past.

_Five months prior, Los Angeles California—17:00_

The sun was high in the sky, beating down heavily on Ryan's black hair, absorbing the light like— well, like a really absorbent thing. Sponges are too cliche, no?Cool sweat was drying against his skin, white shirt hugging his muscles in a way that was once flattering, now more of an inconvenience. That could be said about many things in his life.Around him, young adults laughed with the fervor of slightly tipsy individuals high on the realization of life and the newfound taste of freedom. The sweet smell of flowers beginning to bloom on the grass.

The sky, a gradient of blue tinging into yellow as dusk neared, though the insistent warmth in the air did nothing to support the notion of passing time, of a setting sun.

Before him, Helen Pan.

Her skin was a beautiful warm brown, almond eyes glittering unfairly beautiful in the light. Her long hair cascading down her shoulders framing her elegant face. Upon it, an unfamiliar expression. Her once bright smile now had no semblance of joy as she worried at her lower lip, looking conflicted.

"You look nice," Ryan said, trying his best to smile despite the sinking feeling in his gut.

The one he got every time he went to bed, knowing shadows would materialize as spirits as soon as his head hit the pillow.

"Ryan, please—" she sighed, arms wrapping around her waist protectively.

Ryan exhaled, running a hand through his hair, "Alright, I'm sorry."

She looked nervous as she shifted her weight, guilty almost. Ryan wanted to hold her in his arms right then and there. Tell her everything would be okay, that they would be okay.

But that is one of the most devastating things, isn't it? To be in a situation with no solace, no clear cut conclusion, no bad guy. At the end of the day, having nobody to blame but the reliable faults of human nature.

"You know Ryan, you know it was going to end this way— that things weren't _right_."

He wanted to object, to power back with something, anything to rebuke the accusation. But it's a fool's move to fight what is founded on truth for the sake of ego. And so, whatever he was going to say died on his tongue.

"I know we've been together a long time—" she said plaintively, apologetically guarded.

"—Three years, Helen. Three years," Ryan said tersely, managing to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth where it lay, heavy.

"—You know, Ryan. You know what you did. You know why..." she trailed off, hurriedly brushing the tears out of her eyes with the back of her hand, shaking as if it were winter instead of spring.

Ryan nodded. He knew. He did know, and maybe that made things worse. What was the saying? Ignorance is bliss?

How could he be so crushingly acutely aware of the situation and yet feel so numb all at once? Like he was floating in a vat of Epsom salts, detached from reality, but burdened nonetheless.

Helen sniffed, glancing behind her at seemingly nothing at all. She looked up at him, hardly meeting his eye like she couldn't bear to look at him.

_"You shouldn't have done that, Ryan."_

And then she was gone.


	12. Why'd You Only Call Me When You're High?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, for the first time ever, Shane seeks out Ryan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Emetophobia warning for this chapter (very brief)

Shane awoke on the floor with an ache in his back, a foggy mind, and a fierce, unbridled need for a drink.

His vision swam as he sat up, and he reluctantly paced himself, hoisting himself upright after granting himself a temporary reprieve from the ordeal. He stumbled toward the door, hand shaky and legs weak as he fumbled with the knob, the metal cool in his clammy hands. This granted no respite, however, to his feverish face, neck burning up with a passion as it usually did when he was enduring great amounts of anxiety. Not surprisingly, these moments were anything but few and far between when any misstep could lead to your brains being blown out of your skull. He ended up in the kitchen, the Capo nowhere to be seen, likely at some casino nearby or having a nightcap with one of his pets. Good. The greying man was the last person he wanted to see right now, with what'd he'd done...what he was about to do.

He shakily pulled out a bottle of the most expensive champagne he could find in the cellar, nearly shattering the crystalline bottle as it tried to slide out of his slick hands. He popped the top, cap sailing across the room in a haphazard way Shane couldn't bring himself to care about as he trembly brought the bottle to his lips. The bubbling clear alcohol was sharp against his tongue, hardly savoring it as he downed a quarter of the bottle in one slug.

He fumbled with the phone, hands shaking as he pressed the bright red button:

_Dial back._

Though Shane damned just about anything and everything under the sun in the light of his turmoil, he was exceeding grateful he had forgotten to wipe the call history the last time he and Ryan had touched base. There were a drawn out, solid three rings before he got an answer. Enough to make Shane feel adequately concerned he wouldn't pick up. Enough time to murmur a plaintive, "C'mon, Ryan."

And of course, that's exactly when Ryan picked up.

"Yeah, it's me, what's up?" he asked, voice groggy.

Shane realized the late hour and had the gall to hardly feel guilty for presumably—likely, waking Ryan

As it turned out, Shane's heavy tongue and clouded mind could only manage to repeat his name, tone no doubt crackling with urgency.

"Tinsley?" Ryan inquired, suddenly sounding a lot more awake.

He heard shuffling on the other end of the line, the smaller man hoisting himself upright in bed— more likely a couch, knowing his house.

"You need to come meet me," Shane demanded, words fuzzy and slurred.

Ryan seemed hesitant, "Are you—"

"Ryan."

"Okay, okay," he breathed, "where?" 

Shane swallowed thickly, wracking his inebriated mind; he hadn't thought this far, "The..." he paused as a fleeting wave of dizziness passed over him, steadying himself against the counter, "the bar we..."

"The bar we met at the other night?" Ryan offered helpfully. The genius, the mastermind. Shane had never been so grateful in his life.

"Yes," he breathed, tone of affection probably lost in his inability to coordinate his intentions with actions.

That was a truly terrible state to be in when around Ryan, but the damage had already been done, in multiple ways

"Okay, you're gonna be okay to get there?" he said, gentle concern lacing his voice in a way that if Shane had the gall to— or the sobriety to, he'd feel almost patronized.

Drunk Shane reacted with a heart flutter, fingers closing tighter around the phone until his knuckles turned white.

"I'll be fine."

"Okay, I'll meet you there right now, okay?" Ryan said sincerely, slowly, obviously trying to placate the situation.

"Okay."

Shane reluctantly hung up with a gentle click and spared a look down the endless dark halls before rushing outside unattended for the first time in five months.

* * *

The cool air nearly knocked the wind out of him as he hurried outside. Being inside for ninety-nine percent of the time for nearly half a year evidently took its toll, and Shane struggled to right himself and make his way far, far away. The roads were slick and shiny under the moonlight, traffic a blurry mess of red and white as he stumbled onto the street, waving down a nearby cab. The yellow car stopped to a halt, tires screeching against the asphalt as Shane hurriedly climbed in, tucking all six-foot-four of himself into the vehicle. Albeit, with significant struggle. He mumbled out a frantic location, the cab driver thankfully able to deceiver his rambling as he made his way down the street. He spared a few concerned glances at Shane in the rearview, probably wondering if the abnormally tall man slumped half dead in the back of his car was about to hurl on his leather seats.

Shane anxiously clicked at the phone, despite it being rendered useless away from its home base. _'Error: connection lost,'_ the screen chirped.

Shane reckoned it was something that whatever logical side of his brain that was left and the phone had in common. He was getting to the point of messily drunk where he was leading purely on impulse—logic, and sense be damned. When the cabbie finally pulled over at the side of the road, Shane clumsily clambered out. Realizing belatedly that he didn't have any personal money on him to pay, he tuned out the angry shouts of the driver as he stumbled into the bar, car squealing as it barrelled angrily down the road.

All that he could think was, _I have to see Ryan._

* * *

Ryan looked slightly disheveled; black hair falling in loose curls around his face, dark-rimmed glasses magnifying his wide eyes. In his drunken haze, Shane fought back the urge to reach out and touch him.

_Jesus Christ, what the fuck._

Ryan's face visibly paled as he caught sight of Shane's. No doubt flushed in the cheeks, eyes wild, and hair he spent an hour carding through sticking up every which way—a startling juxtaposition to the other times he'd seen him.

"Tinsley, sit down, dude," Ryan said, glancing up at him through thick lashes, "God, you look awful."

Shane slumped down precariously, laughing a bit manically, "Tinsley is nooot my name, you think you'd know it after knowing a guy. Also, _hurtful_ — I thought we had a connection, Ryan."

Ryan looked equal parts flustered as he did incredibly troubled at Shane's usual nonchalant, charming cadence replaced with...whatever this was.

"C.C., are you alright?"

"Well, I was," Shane drawled lazily, "that was until I got this message on my phone all cryptic and shit warning me about something and—"

"Wait," Ryan interrupted, significantly more composed than his gangly counterpart, "you got a call, warning you?"

"Yeah, it's not good, I don't think this is safe. Well, I say that as if I could ever be safe working for the fricking Mafia—"

Ryan hushed him, placing a hand over his mouth hastily, glancing around the room. Luckily, most people had cleared out, only one bartender shining glasses in the corner. Ryan slowly removed his warm palm from Shane's lips, pinkening slightly in the cheeks.

"Are they coming after me too?" Ryan asked directly, eyes trained intensely on Shane's.

A wave of acid reflux rolled sickeningly through Shane's stomach, "Oh my God, oh my God...I was supposed to protect you, that was the whole point, and I-" he gagged dryly, "I failed. You're not safe, I'm not safe, nothing's safe."

Shane's breathing was ragged as he rambled, tone panicked and rushed.

"Tinsley—" Ryan started, eyes full of concern.

"I gotta go."

"Tinsley!"

Shane slammed through the back doors, cool metal freezing against his unbearably hot hands, collapsing into the damp grass just outside.

Ryan followed after him, shouting his name as Shane keeled over, puking onto the spans of grass.

"Tinsley," Ryan said, probably softly, but sounding piercingly loud as he gazed at him, hair hanging limp with wetness across his forehead. Funny, Shane hadn't even noticed it'd been raining,

Ryan reached out to touch his shoulder, and Shane shrugged him off violently.

"D-don't, don't—" he started, surroundings blurring around him.

He veered left, passing out on the wet ground, rain pouring as heavy as the rapture above, Ryan's voice impossibly far away as he lost consciousness.


	13. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a wise man once told Shane, "Never go to bed angry," so Shane, a wise man himself, wakes up angry instead.

Shane awoke like any dignified, distinguished man in his mid-twenties would— yelling bloody murder as he catapulted his lanky body off a questionably sanitary couch like the world's most pathetic warfare projectile. Looking around in his daze, he found himself in an unfamiliar place. Or, at least, certainly not his bourgeois bedroom back at the Mafia house.

Oh God, the _Mafia._

Shane bolted upright from his place on the ground, startling a newspaper that lay on the ground, adjacent to the love seat that has probably seen sights that no loveseat should see. He picked up the paper, knees popping in protest as if Shane needed any more reminder of the fact he had aged about five years in the few months he'd been roped into this line of work. His fingers catch against the ribbed edges of the newspaper, blood blooming as a cut spread over the sensitive pad of his pointer finger.The red bled into the edges, but Shane hardly noticed as he furrowed his brows, staring at the date:

_June 15th._

_"Fuck,"_ he cursed, glancing up at the window, which, sure enough, had pale sunlight streaming through it, casting minuscule fragments of dust fluttering through the air in a kind of careless free-fall he couldn't help but envy.

_"Ryan,"_ he called, voice coming out as more of a growl through his parched throat.

The thundering of steps down the stairs, "You're up!" he crowed, all too chipper given the situation. Shane half expected him to be wearing a flowered apron, nursing a stack of pancakes and orange juice in his arms. But no, there he stood, dressed in a white t-shirt and cargo shorts, hair curling through the gap in his backward cap.

Shane shook the newspaper at him, "How long have I been out?"

Ryan looked slightly guilty, but not enough, given the circumstances, "Eight hours."

A wave of bleariness crashed over Shane's mind, " _Eight hours?_ Ryan, why didn't you wake me up?"

"You looked so exhausted, and I just thought—"

"No, you didn't think, I mean, why would you," Shane huffed, "the fucking _Mob_ is after us," he said, lowering his voice, "they'll eat people like you for dinner!"

Ryan looked like a kicked puppy, and Shane felt like a major asshole before he said, "And what about you?"

Shane curled his hands around the paper tighter, fingers boring into the taupe material, getting closer into Ryan's space, "Don't you see? This isn't _about me_ , Ryan! It's about _you,_ and I'm supposed to be _protecting_ you, and I can't do that when you fuck over every part of that plan!"

Ryan glowered beneath him, eyes fierce, "Well, I never asked you to protect me in the first place, asshole! And in case you forgot, you were the one who came to me last night drunk out of your mind! What was I supposed to do, leave you to die on the grass?"

"Maybe you should have!" he shot back, "at least that way you would have been safe!"

Shane knew that was wrong, the Mafia was seamless in what they do— they would have found him regardless. But Shane found that even when facts don't support claims, humans will just as willingly exploit the weaknesses or appeal to the feelings of others to win an un-winnable battle. Humans are natural demagogues.

"I was worried about you!" Ryan yelled.

Shane couldn't even process the sentiment behind the words, his mind zeroing in on the accusatory tone heavy in his voice.

"And _I'm_ worried about _you,_ " he seethed, paper crumbling beneath his grip, "but feelings don't matter now, do they?"

"Tinsley," Ryan said softly, looking intently at his hand, "you're bleeding."

Shane took one look at his plaintive eyes, the concerned crook of his mouth, the dark eyelashes framing the feather soft gaze on him. He threw the newspaper down, shoving out of Ryan's touch, heading to the door, "You shouldn't have done that, Ryan. We're done here— if you value your life, stay the goddamn hell away!" He whipped open the door, brass hinges screaming as the wood bashed against the wall,

"And Ryan?"

He looked up at him.

"Don't bother calling my number next time you wanna see me. Call the morgue instead, because we're as good as dead out here now."

* * *

Ryan stood in the living room, frozen where Tinsley had stormed off twenty minutes ago. He felt glued to his place, cold shock of the events that transpired over the past few hours jarring to his normal routine. He couldn't believe the gall, the audacity of this man. Going around playing phone tag with Ryan, involving himself in the narrative whenever it was good for him, but shifting all blame to Ryan when shit hit the fan. He understood, at least to some degree. Contrary to his ally's blatant, frankly concerning emotional constipation, he was well aware of the toll that traumatic events can have on a person; a toll the unbreakable Tinsley is not immune to, whatever he may say.

But Ryan also knew the intention doesn't always justify the means, and he was really fucking pissed. He wasn't just some lost puppy waiting for Tinsley to come back, but he was entitled to the concern for his life and desire to comfort him. At least that's what he told himself when he sat on the still-warm couch, arms crossed and gaze trained on the door. The _nerve_ of this man...only Tinsley could nearly die and wake up petulant the next day at the man who nursed him back to health for damaging his ego. After he had passed out on the wet grass, Ryan had hoisted him over his shoulder—an incredible feat for a less-than-average-height man and one that was tall enough it would probably shave off five years of his life.

Due to his vertical advantage, and Ryan's...well, lack of it, C.C. had more than not leaned heavily on him, feet dragging as Ryan hailed the nearest cab, depositing the giant lug into the seat beside him.

The cabbie had looked back at them, spotting Shane and groaning, "Aw, not you again!"

"Again?" Ryan asked.

"Yeh, your man here hailed a cab last night and got out without payin'!"

"I apologize for my idiotic associate," Ryan sighed, "I'll pay you extra."

The cabbie grinned, "Bless ya, man."

"Yeah, it's the least I could do."

The man drove in silence for a bit before glancing back in his rearview mirror, "You his concubine or somethin'?"

Ryan suddenly realized he'd be subconsciously petting Tinsley's wet hair off his forehead where it lay in his lap. He blushed furiously, "No!"

The man hummed, and they continued their drive back to his house. Once they sat parked at the curb, he paid the driver gratuitously and hoisted the ridiculous mobster over his shoulder, lugging him up the steps and depositing him on the couch. The man hardly fit, long limbs sprawled around him, but it would have to do. Ryan's bed wasn't that big, and he wouldn't imagine Tinsley would take too well to waking up in Ryan's master bedroom beside him, still hungover. On second thought, he placed a blanket over the damp man so he wouldn't catch a cold, flipping off the lights and quietly making his way out of the room.

"Goodnight, idiot," he had murmured, going to his room.

And then, of course, not too long after he had awoken, he heard Tinsley's scream. And that brings him to present moment— still as a statue and a little shell-shocked in the wake of the argument. He sighed, finally moving, joints aching from being idle for so long. He stared around the room as if he could find any answers there.

Then, he picked up the phone, tapping out a familiar number, and he dialed Helen.

* * *

When Shane walked in forty minutes later, he looked incredibly ruffled. His hair was sticking up in all directions, once-pressed suit rumpled devastatingly with concave wrinkles. He stared intensely at Ryan with wild eyes, eyes flickering from the phone beside him on the chair back to his face again. Papers lay sprawled around him, which he would later identify as studying notes. Ryan peered up at him with inquisitive eyes. He was fumbling to think of an appropriate greeting when Shane spoke.

_"They know, Ryan."_


	14. The Drive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ryan wonders what the hell he got himself into, and comes to the realization that gold lube does, in fact, exist.

"What do you mean they _know?_ " Ryan asked when Tinsley first stormed into his house, blatantly announcing how fucked they were.

He asked the question several more times as he was hoisted into the passenger seat of his own car, hastily bucked in and barrelled down the bustling streets of L.A. without so much as even a slight precursor for what was to follow. Tinsley had grabbed his arm, yanking him out the door, ignoring Ryan's protests and questions. The red marks where his fingers dug in remain branded into his skin like a tattoo.

"Are you going to answer me, asshole? You looped me into your shit, I deserve an explanation!" Ryan demanded, crossing his arms in his seat, knowing he was only going to provoke the man sitting next to him, but far too miffed to care.

C.C. gripped the steering wheel tighter, jaw set tightly as his knuckles went white around the leather. Dried blood still coat his fingers, caked into the skin.

"I don't owe you anything, so stop asking me unless you want me to put duct tape over your mouth for the rest of the drive."

Ryan hated how the idea sent a jolt of excitement through his body, he was tempted to push the boundaries, just to see what Tinsley would do. He was playing with fire, he knew that that. His comrade practically already had smoke coming out of his ears, and Ryan thought it was quintessential that he up-kept his bastard reputation even in the face of death.

"Bitch," he muttered, biting his lip and Shane's head swiveled towards him

* * *

So that's how Ryan ended up with duct tape over his mouth, being carted down sketchy side roads and the rolling fields with absolutely nothing to say for himself.

"God, you're such a shyster," Tinsley muttered, flicking his gaze to Ryan's petulant face briefly before returning it to the open road.

He opened his mouth to retort back and only further stuck the tape to his jaw, the adhesive yanking at his facial air sharply. He yelped, the sound muffled, and Tinsley—the sadist, just smirked.

"Better hang in there Ryan, we're not nearly there yet."

Ryan sent him a deadly glare, which his tall captor ignored, focused on the rolling hills around them and a destination in mind.

* * *

Tinsley was mostly quiet the entire drive, obviously still upset about the turn of events. Ryan speculated that hiding beneath all that anger was some genuine fear. He _also_ speculated that Tinsley's bigass ego would prevent him from ever admitting that. Despite Ryan's gratuitous empathy, he found it hard to have a sliver of sweetness towards the man as he parked the car, kneeling over Ryan's side and ripping the silver tape of his lips in one deafening ' _scritch!'_

"Asshole," Ryan spat, upper lip burning hotly as he licked at the raw skin, where glue was still attached.

"Mouthy," Tinsley retorted, stupid face making Ryan's confused mind vie to kiss the idiocy right out of him.

_It had been a long day._

Tinsley reached down and unbuckled Ryan's seatbelt.

"I could have done that myself..." he muttered.

The tall man just shrugged in response, "Well, you going to get out or should I lock you in here?"

Ryan sighed, hopping out of the car and glancing up at the tall building in front of him. Even from the outside, it looked like a place Ryan would never be seen in. _Hell_ , it looked like a place Ryan wouldn't be _allowed_ in.

"Where are we?"

His tall partner nodded at the sign, "Hotel."

"I know that you i—" Ryan started, thinking better of it when Tinsley gave him a warning glance. He decided to try again, "Why are we here?"

"We gotta sleep somewhere, don't we?" Tinsley shrugged, lugging a small suitcase out of the trunk, closing it behind him and starting to make his way toward the hotel.

"What...how long are we staying there?" Ryan asked, almost running to catch up to the long-legged mafiaso.

C.C. swiveled on his heel, Ryan nearly colliding with his chest at the sudden movement, "Just...cooperate, please?"

Ryan sighed, nodding minutely.

"Thank you."

And with that, they walked through the doors in silence.

* * *

The inside was even more lavish, with honest-to-God red carpets, tasteful gold furnishings, brown leather seating that looked so comfortable Ryan lunged for it, held back only by the hand that settled on his shoulder. Expensive, real looking paintings sit untouched on the cream-colored walls, gold crown molding edged along the ceiling. In the smack dab middle of the room hung an impressive crystalline, fulgurate chandelier; clearly the statement piece of the room. It rose up as the zenith of the establishment, sending prismatic beams of light tumbling down.

Ryan suddenly felt very out of place.

The red-lipped, tragically beautiful receptionist regarded Ryan with doubt, zeroed in on his rumpled white shirt and cargo shorts; a jarringly stark juxtaposition to her slick black dress and glimmering diamond necklace. Tinsley leaned in, charming smile plastered onto his face, eyes twinkling. Ryan could hardly make out the words between them, but he presumed he was providing some sort of justification for Ryan's unseemly appearance.To be entirely fair, Tinsley didn't exactly look his best either— his pressed suit was crinkled at the seams, tie loose around his neck, hair un-gelled and if he looked hard enough, he could still make out the slight grass stains sunk into his slacks at the knees.

Whatever he said— or rather, _paid_ must have done the trick, because, before long, C.C. was ushering him upstairs, shooing him into their shared room.

Two large beds lay parallel, adorned with white sheets and a red throw at the foot of the bed, separated by a single marbled mahogany nightstand. The walls and gold trim were the same as in the lobby, as were the brown leather seats. A flat-screen T.V. sat propped on a console, stacks of movies filed neatly in the shelves below.

"Huh," Ryan murmured, fingers brushing against the two folded towel swans on the bed, beaks joined in a heart.

Tinsley knocked over a flowery, romantic card with his knuckle, leaving it face down on the armoire, "It's a honeymoon suite, but it'll do, I guess."

Ryan gaped, staring at the jacuzzi tub, a bottle of sparkling champagne resting atop the marble, "'It'll _do'_?" Ryan asked, incredulously, curiously sliding open the drawer of the bedside table, "Dude this is—oh look, they even gave us condoms."

C.C. looked over, spotting that they had, indeed, supplied a myriad of gold foil condoms, in conjunction with a black and gold bottle he recognized as lube.

"Won't be needing those," Tinsley said far too confidently, promptly sliding the drawer close.

Ryan just squinted at him, mouth turned down in a way that made his jaw ache from the lasting tape burn.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Tinsley said, hoisting the suitcase onto the bed, an amused look on his stupid, stupid face, "did I bruise your ego?"

Ryan rolled his eyes, "Don't give yourself too much credit, Long Legs, if your head gets any bigger it'll rip a hole in the time-space continuum."

Tinsley actually laughed at that, and oddly enough, it sent a bloom of warmth across Ryan's chest, a proud kind of feeling settling in.

"I mean," Ryan continued, "look at you, your suit is all rumpled."

"Well," Tinsley said, zipping open his suitcase, "that brings me to my next point."

Ryan watched dumbly as he popped open the top of the luggage, rifling through it, "What are you doing?"

"Getting changed, and I suggest you do the same."

Ryan frowned, "Why? Not like we're going anywhere."

"Don't you wanna look put together?"

"No, not really."

Tinsley rolled his eyes, "God, it's like you were raised in a frat house."

"I was!"

"I know, Ryan."

Ryan huffed, crossing his arms, "And it's not like I even have a change of clothes! I don't assume you packed a suitcase for me, did you?"

C.C. looked jarred, "Oh...right. Well, I guess we'll have to figure that out, won't we?"

Ryan's insistent, "What do you mean?" was lost to the air as Tinsley grabbed a pair of clothes and entered the bathroom, leaving Ryan in an over-expensive room wondering what the hell he got himself into.

* * *

After a good twenty minutes, the tall bastard of a man exited the bathroom; shower steam chasing after him as the faucet came to a close. Ryan couldn't help but wonder what the hell the man had been doing in there, mind helpfully supplying a few ideas, but his speculation was firmly narrowed by the probable realization that Tinsley had too much of a stick up his ass to not be a prude.

_Oh, I'm C.C. and I don't come like everyone else in the world because I'm above that._

It was that moment Ryan realized perhaps he was directing his frustration at the wrong things.

The tall man—annoyingly, looked rather nice. His still-damp hair lay slicked back on his head, eyelashes dark from the water wicking off of them, and the stubble on his face neatly trimmed. He wore a nice navy dress shirt and black jeans, collar popped and black tie missing from around his neck. He looked nice. He _smelled_ nice. And for the second time in an hour, Ryan felt uncomfortably out of place.

Ryan meant to tell him that— you know what they say, a little flattery never hurt anyone when they'd been locked up with a genuine mafioso with a forehead that had more real estate than an apartment two people could afford in L.A. But what came out of his mouth was, "You look like a sailor." 

Tinsley rolled his eyes, going to the armoire to fasten his expensive rigged watch to his wrist, glancing over at Ryan's place on the bed, "I liked you better when you had tape over your mouth."

Ryan spluttered, thinking of a response when Tinsley said, "Don't hurt yourself. Go take a shower."

Ryan frowned, stalking off to the bathroom, "You better have left me some hot water, asshole."


	15. Breakfast Burritos and Bugged Rooms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ryan becomes entirely too patriotic against his will and complains about not having underwear.

When Ryan stepped out of the shower ages later, he felt somewhat like a person again. His hair was stubbornly curling up again the way it did whenever he showered, and he furiously tugged at it to no avail. Tinsley could have at least let him bring a hairbrush. He held a towel loosely around his waist, slinking into the room with water droplets clinging to his heat-flushed skin and eyes searching for something to wear before remembering, _oh yeah, he didn't have anything._ And of course, that's when the door swung open.

Ryan protectively gripped the towel closer to his pelvis, glaring accusingly at a full-armed Tinsley, a bag of something that smelled like food in his arms and a shirt, which he threw at him. He caught this shirt one-handed, the towel slipping down the curve of his hip precariously.

"What is this?"

"Dinner," C.C. said over the bag, placing it down on the counter, "and something for you to wear."

Ryan glanced down at the _'I Love LA!'_ shirt in his arms, "Gee, thanks, Long Legs. You know, I would have appreciated you letting me know we were going on the run from the literal Mafia— I would have packed more underwear."

"Oh, don't get your panties in a twist, Bergara. Be glad we're alive."

Ryan flushed, "Alright fine, but don't come complaining to me when I go commando."

He slipped on the cargo shorts under his towel, tossing it aside, revealing his back to Tinsley, who's eyes were practically burning a hole in his back.

"What?" Ryan demanded, turning to face him, his bare chest and torso on display.

There was no denying it, Ryan knew he was a fit dude. He worked hard to get to where he was now, and hell, he was proud of it— it took away from the fact he wasn't astoundingly tall.

His eyes seemed to trail down his abs, "Nothing," he said dismissively, snapping out of it as if it never happened, "I got us breakfast burritos."

_Those are my favorite,_ Ryan thought.

"Your favorite or all you could afford?"

It was that moment Ryan realized he had spoken aloud. So that was a thing that was happening now— thoughts spilling out of his mouth, not on his own volition. He'd have to watch that, surely.

"Shut up, Long Legs. Not all of us are filthy rich. It's not like I see you offering me the finer things in life!"

Tinsley scoffed, "Look where you are right now— is this not considered one of the 'finer things?'"

Ryan frowned glancing at the giant marble jacuzzi, the wine cellar stocked with good alcohol, the lube in the bedside drawer probably worth more than him.

"I—yes. But are you really rich if you're in a five-star hotel room if you've got no clothes?"

"I think that makes you even richer."

"Alright, alright. Just...shut up."

Tinsley chuckled to himself, tossing a warm cylindrical package to him, Ryan catching it close to his chest.

"Eat. We're gonna have a long night ahead of us."

Something told Ryan he wasn't going to like what that entailed.

* * *

Ryan had been right about not liking the sounds of what Tinsley had planned. He'd hardly stuffed the last bite of breakfast burrito into his mouth before he was roused into conversation.

"Jesus, haven't you ever heard of afterglow, Tinsley? Not sparing a second to recover."

"That only applies to sex."

"Well, if I seduce you right now will you stop talking?"

Tinsley rolled his eyes, and Ryan was pleased to see a steady blush creeping up his cheeks, "No."

He suddenly jolted up, dragging a chair from the desk and placing it in the middle of the ground in the corner of the room. He stood on it, having to angle his head to avoid it brushing the ceiling due to his height, fiddling with the thermostat in the middle of the room.

"What in the goddamn hell are you doing, Long Legs?" Ryan asked, peering up at the lummox of a man.

Tinsley grunted, popping the screen off the thermostat and seemingly looking for something. Ryan's suspicions were confirmed when he said, "Seein' if this room is bugged."

Ryan stared up at Tinsley's endless legs, his ass facing him in those stupid tight jeans as he fiddled with various mechanics around the room.

He sighed, "Hate to see him leave, love to watch him go."

Ryan counted it as a win when C.C. nearly toppled off the chair, steadying himself on the wall and muttering, "Shut up, Mouthy."

"Y'know, Tinsley, that's startin' to sound a whole lot like a pet name. You're not catching feelings, are you?" 

The tall man hopped down from the chair, glaring at Ryan, "Right now, I'm feeling like I'm going to end up killing you before the Ma—"

He paused like a deer in headlights, like the thought was buffering in his mind. Then, he hurriedly dragged the chair across the room and repeated the process.

"What are you doing now?"

"Just...be quiet. Busy yourself."

Ryan sighed, flopping back on the bed, eyes scanning the pristine white ceilings. He was both thoroughly befuddled and angered to find not a single speck of dust mingling there.

"What am I even supposed to do?" he whined, "it's not like I brought anything with me."

Tinsley sighed, stepping down and once again inspecting different corners of the room, "I dunno, play I-Spy or something."

"What am I, five?" Ryan gaped, crossing his arms over his chest, "do you have any music?"

"You're insufferable."

"Is that a yes?"

C.C. sighed, digging in his pocket and tossing his WalkMan to a triumphant Ryan. Despite what his tall comrade seemed to believe, he wasn't entirely useless. He mulled this over as he checked to see if there was any hidden tracker on it, frankly surprised that he would be allowed a WalkMan in the Mafia, before deciding he probably snuck it in. _It must be pretty important to him if he risked his life to keep it_ , Ryan thought to himself.

One day, sometime in the future, Ryan might have asked that question, why the WalkMan was so important so as to risk his life for it. Sometime in the future, maybe C.C. would have blushed, making up some bullshit excuse to distract from the fact that the entire _Mamma Mia_ discography was on it. But today wasn't that day, some confessions were just gonna have to wait, so it seemed.

_One of these days, he's gonna be grateful to have me around_ , Ryan thought to himself, busying his mind.

After all, they had all the time in the world.

* * *

Ryan finally decided enough was enough when Tinsley started unscrewing the lightbulbs. He glanced over at the bedside clock, arm sprawled across his head, the other resting on his steady heartbeat, "M' Tinsley, go to sleep. It's late."

The tall man didn't respond, frowning at the light.

Ryan tried again, voice firmer this time, "Come on, Long Legs. I'm trying to sleep over here. Turn off the damn light and come to bed."

Tinsley sighed, but caved, switching off the light and sprawling his ridiculously long limbs across the bed parallel to Ryan's.

"That sounded entirely too domestic."

Ryan rolled his eyes— not like C.C. could see it in the dark, but it's the sentiment that counts.

"Yeah, whatever. You'd better change, you can't afford to get another one of your shirts wrinkled, and I don't want your stench infiltrating the room when you start wearing your shirts overnight too."

Tinsley scoffed, "Bold words for the man who doesn't have a change of clothes."

"That was your fucking fault, asshole!"

"Mhmm," the man said, "there's a laundromat downstairs, I might go down there tomorrow."

"Okay," Ryan spoke through a yawn, voice heavy with sleep.

Shane was right, this sounded entirely too domestic. But, as it turns out— there really is no way to avoid feeling domestic when stuck in a room with someone for an indefinite amount of time. There was something to be said about breathing the same recycled air, and Ryan couldn't decide if it was infuriating or somewhat romantic. He gave up on wondering as his eyelids fell closed, limbs feeling full of lead as his body sunk deeper into the mattress. He heard the soft sounds of Tinsley shucking off his clothes and putting new ones on, neatly tucking his suit back into the luggage. As sleep overtook him, Ryan couldn't help but wonder how they were ever going to survive spending countless days in such small quarters with nearly nothing to do, and what the next day would bring.

He hadn't thought of an answer yet by the time his eyes finally drifted shut, turning onto his side and letting sleep overtake him as the world faded to black.


	16. In Which Shane Loses His Goddamn Mind In A Laundromat and It's Just Another Tuesday

Shane awoke with a heaviness in his head and a wicked crick in his neck. He groaned, tossing his arm over his eye, scanning the room around him. He got up like a shot, legs nearly giving beneath him like one of those collapsing wood figurines, head swimming as he stumbled into the kitchen.

"Where's my—" he breathed laboredly, resting keeled over, grip firm on the counter.

"Your Walkman?" Ryan, already at the table, the air of sangfroid insufferably undisturbed, as always.

"The GPS in it, I gotta—"

"Turn it off? I already did that yesterday."

Shane heaved a guttural sigh of relief, a likely unjustified amount of rampant newfound appreciation for the man in front of him.

"Take a seat, Long Legs, you look deathly pale."

Shane compliantly folded into the chair across from him.

"Sleep well?" Ryan grinned.

Shane thought about the near-constant night tremors that would wrack his body while he tried to sleep, the vivid flashes of the past infiltrating his mind every time his eyes shut, the night paranoia that left him gasping for air in the middle of the night.

He pushed his chair back, stalking off into the bedroom, "'Slept fine. I'm going to the laundromat, need anything washed?"

"Tinsley?" Ryan called, seemingly confused by the sudden change in conversation, "I don't have any clothes, remember?"

Shane frowned to himself, pausing with a shirt half folded around his arm, "Oh. Right. We should probably sort that out."

"Yeah," Ryan furrowed his brows, glancing inquisitively at him, "we should."

When Shane glanced over to speak and saw a scheming look on his face, he rolled his eyes in anticipation for what he just knew was going to come.

"Unless of course, you want me to wait for you here on the bed naked."

_There it was._

Shane scoffed, "Nope, most definitely don't want that."

"C'mon, Tin-man, I could even order chocolate covered strawberries, I bet."

"Not happening, Bergara, and don't call me that unless you wanna be ten shades of fucked—none of them in the way you're hoping."

Ryan rolled his eyes, "You can't be that old. I know your libido can't be suffering that much."

"With you around, it's as good as nonexistent," he snarked.

"Hey!"

"I'm leaving now," he continued, grabbing a shirt from his suitcase and tossing it to Ryan, who caught it against his chest, "that should solve your little problem."

"I am not wearing your clo—" Ryan started, but Shane left him deserted in the middle of his sentence, leaving him alone in a room in a hotel far too expensive for him, with one shirt and fuel for his inner inferno.

Shane considered this a win as he stalked out of the room, alone with his thoughts.

* * *

Laundry had become somewhat therapeutic for Shane. He thought this as he watched the sparse load of clothes hardly begin to fill the machine, the spin cycle rotating like a turbine inside. The simplicity of it, the low-effort task of it, the continuity of it...you couldn't always count on being a free man, but you could always count that your underwear will need washing every rising sun. Shane realized he must be really grasping for straws in the sanity department if he started seeing symbolism in dirty laundry.

But really, what else was new?

He watched the water curve up the metal turbine, sending a wave of foam over the clothes, drenching them. And the clothes—as clothes do, let themselves be whisked away, sitting drenched and sopping wet. The quiet hum of the washing machine seemed to drown beneath the ringing in his ears, the world seeming to ebb and flow beneath him like high tide. The water rising and rising until it curled imposingly above him, crashing down onto him like a freight train.

"N-no, no," he said. It sounded like a whisper in his swimming ears, but could very well have been a scream.

He clutched the counter piercingly hard, cold marble digging into his wounded hand. It didn't hurt. He couldn't feel anything. Black spots floated over his field of vision. His feet felt like static below him. Searing hot flashes of white rippling up from the tips of his tore to the back of his neck, but his body was shaking, shaking like he was naked in the middle of winter. In his mind, flashes of a moment infiltrated the barriers he'd worked so hard to keep up, to keep in place. The dams he built to keep out the tide. The dams he built to keep out the—oh God. He was standing in the shower, just about a month ago. He'd recognized the signs— the shaky grip on the shampoo as he poured it into his hands, fingers tugging at his hair in some botched attempt to wash up. The sudden heart palpitations. The stream of water spouted out onto him by the shower-head, uncaring of what it had triggered.

_"Ugh, ngh,"_ he had mumbled, hands coming out to splay across the marble tiles, brain short-circuiting as he protested against the relentless thoughts.

_The look of the bloated body; blue-green veins poking out of the skin unnaturally. The sickening smell of death and gunpowder. The bile burning in his throat._

He had smacked the cold tile, trying to rouse his mind out of the incoming attack. He struggled out of the shower, feet trailing wet footprints on the floor. He shakily and blindly reached for the tap, jerking the handle to the coldest setting and sending the jarringly freezing water onto his face.

He panted into the sink, hair dripping onto his nose, droplets of water rolling down his jaw. Ironically enough, it aided the situation. It felt nothing like the rain, he thought as he collapsed over the counter, exhausted. Shane jerked, fighting against the racing thoughts, memories trying to slip into his mind. He squeezed down on the counter, the bruising sensation enough to collect his bearings and focus on his own shaky breath.

_Breathe in for five, hold for seven, breathe out for eight._

_Breathe in for five, hold for seven, breathe out for eight._

_Breathe in for five, hold for seven, breathe out for eight._

His mind spun in protest, he whimpered— a detail he'd be ashamed of once he could feel the ground beneath his feet again— and tremulously uttered, _"Breathe in for five, hold for seven, breathe out for eight. C'mon, Shane! Man up, you don't have time—"_

His palm connected with his face. Immediately, a blush blooming under his stubble on the left side of his jaw. And by some miracle, the fog cleared. He sighed in relief, leaning heavily over the washing machine.

A click.

The doorknob turning.

He jolted upright, eyes meeting the intruder. It was one of the maids, apologetic to interrupt.

"Oh! I'm sorry sir! I just came to collect some towels for the missus upstairs. How has your stay been?"

Shane very well couldn't have told her, 'well, I just had a panic attack in your laundromat, so things are incredible, thank you. Nice interior design though, the acoustics wonderfully carry the sounds of my breath leaving my lungs.'

So he just smiled, going to straighten his tie before realizing he had taken it off, shooting his best charming look as he said, "Sublime, thank you."

She smiled, nodding towards the still-running washing machine, "Would you like me to deliver your clothes to your room once they are washed and dried?"

"That would be great, thank you," Shane coughed, smoothing back his hair.

The pretty lady smiled, as if she didn't have a care in the world. _Must be nice_ , Shane thought grudgingly to himself, leaving her with his room number and complete oblivion to what went down in the confines of the room.

Secret— as small as they were, were quickly adding up. It was becoming slightly too easy to lie.

_And slightly more impossible to tell the goddamn truth._


	17. Hole in the Wall

When Shane got back to the room, he had essentially folded up into the mattress and knocked out. He couldn't even remember if he had greeted the surely confused Ryan when he returned twenty minutes later with five fewer articles of clothing as he had left with and looking like he's walked through Hell and back.

Shane woke up twitching, restless legs feeling as if they were filled with that fluid at the bottom of thermometers. A dull ache in his temples telling him exactly how well he slept. A staggering walk as he forced himself out of bed.

He ambled over to Ryan, who stood frowning to himself in the corner, "D'yknow where the ibuprofen is?"

He regarded him with furrowed brows, frown still present on his face, but eyes soft at the corners, "Yeah, I saw some in the cabinet. Here, c'mere, I'll show you."

Shane languidly trailed Ryan to the ensuite bathroom and held out his hand as two small blue pills were placed gently in his hand. He was in the middle of debating whether to dry-swallow them or to go fetch a glass of water from the kitchen when the door knocked loudly.

He jumped, back knocking against the door and pills projecting out of his hands, skittering to the edges of the floor unceremoniously as they rolled a few times and then stilled.

Ryan looked up at him, baffled. His forehead was creased in some kind of rendition of exasperated confusion, "What's wrong with you? You've been so... _jumpy_ lately."

Nevertheless, he briefly placed a hand on Shane's shoulder before starting towards the door.

Shane stared intently at the now-obsolete pills, the small white bottle sitting open on the sink while he heard Ryan chattering to whoever was at the door.

"Thank you," he made out, and then the gentle click of the door locking into place.

He was silently thankful that Bergara had been mindful of the quiet— if he had to have heard another loud sound, his mind might have melted.

"Well, laundry's here," he huffed, placing the neat stack of clothes on their respective sides of the bed.

Ryan glanced at his one white shirt, and the already-fading ' _I love L.A!_ " t-shirt, "Boy, I'm sure running up your dry cleaning bill, aren't I, Tinsley?"

Tinsley stared at the pills, abandoned on the floor. He should really go get more. His head still had a dull ache radiating through it.

"Tinsley!" Ryan repeated, walking over towards him again, "seriously dude."

He placed two more blue pills firmly into Shane's palm, closing his fingers around them and looking inquisitively at him, "Are you okay?"

"M'fine."

Ryan didn't look convinced, but if he wasn't, he didn't comment on it any further. Instead, he lightly patted Tinsley's back and left the room again.

"Were you gonna tell me that you were getting our laundry delivered or was I just supposed to find that out for myself? You're lucky I had pants on when I opened the door!"

Tossing back the ibuprofen, he joined Ryan in the other room, "Why would you answer the door if you didn't have pants on?"

"Buddy, that's a secret that's staying with me..." he paused, "of course, unless you wanted to get me drunk. That'd loosen my lips a little bit."

Shane scoffed, lightened by the reprieve as the painkiller cleared through the fog in his mind, "Still sticking with that seduction tactic, Bergara?"

"What's it to you?" Ryan scoffed, crossing his arms and jutting his chin up.

"In case you've forgotten, we're here on business, not pleasure," he responded coolly.

"The staff seems to think otherwise!" Ryan argued, glancing pointedly at the small heart-shaped box of assorted luxury chocolates that room service brought with their fresh linens.

"Huh."

Ryan stared at him as if Shane had just been proved humiliatingly wrong, "See?"

"All I see is you reaching," Shane said airily, "besides, you need your clothes intact, it's not like you have many to begin with."

Ryan frowned, "Why wouldn't I have any clothes after?"

"You roll your way, I roll mine."

Even with his back turned, he could feel the man gaping at him, at a complete loss of words. Score one.

_______

Ryan was rather distraught to hear they weren't getting dinner anytime soon.

"What do you mean we can't eat?"

"I mean, we need to lay down some ground rules if we're doing this thing."

Ryan peeked out from under his arm that was splayed over his face, "Doing what?"

"This...hiding out. God, don't get any ideas, Bergara, I'll gag you."

In response, a way too delayed "Sheesh," suspiciously accompanied by the rustling sound of him shifting his weight.

Shane made a tortured face, "Aw, God, you'd probably like that, wouldn't you? Don't answer."

Ryan shrugged before whining, "Please, Tinsley, I'm so hungry,"

"I know you're short, but I'm certain you're not growing anymore, so you have absolutely no excuse to be bitching about hunger pangs."

"Well, Tinsley, humans get hungry. Not that I would expect you to know that, considering you're an emotionless robot."

The lighthearted jab struck a foul note in Shane, but if Ryan detected the slightly wounded cadence to his voice after, he didn't mention it.

"Just...get over here."

Begrudgingly, Ryan complied.

"There, was that so hard?" he huffed, staring at the man in front of him, "alright, living here is not going to be easy."

Ryan rolled his eyes, "It's a five-star hotel, C.C., I don't know about you, but this is about as easy as life is gonna get for me. Of course, I wouldn't expect you to know, seeing as you're rich."

Shane bit his lip, huffing out a sigh to calm the match striking in his gut, "I'm not rich, Ryan. Do you think that being a part of the Mob is some kind of cake-walk?"

"I mean, yeah. Sit around with cigars in your mouth all day, wearing your fancy pressed suits and having the privilege of ignoring phone calls whenever you damn please, must be nice."

There was an undertone of insecurity in Ryan's voice, some kind of jealous indignation founded on a false notion, a lie. That only angered Tinsley more.

The only thing more irritating than a strong-minded fool was an ignorant one. They spend their lives defending so-called-truths founded on the shaky foundation of misinformation and expecting others to bend the knee.

Heat pricked on the back of his neck, "That's not at all how it's like."

"Well, how the hell would I know? It's not like you ever talk to me! You know, you're not the only one going through shit!"

"Ryan...would you just shut up, and listen to me for once?" Shane spoke through gritted teeth.

The man just got closer into his space, nearly up against his chest, clearly looking for a fight as he spat out, "Why should I, huh? You gonna tell me or are you just going to leave like you always do?"

"'No' is not a catalyst for a goddamn inquisition, Ryan."

"Well, maybe if you told me more, I wouldn't fucking ask you, asshole!"

Shane shoved him, pinning him against the nearby wall. In his eyes, some kind of mix of fear and something else swam in Ryan's pupils, his chest heaving as his gaze flicked from Shane's face to his arms bracketing him in.

"I'm trying to protect you!" he barked, the sound echoing throughout the room in the dead silence.

He glanced into Ryan's dilated pupils, feeling his warm pulse beneath his skin, his fingers twitching to brush against Shane's, as if this meant nothing to him, as if nothing could get him to listen.

Shane thought back to his first impression of the man, _"This man has no regard for his life."_

And at that moment, Shane knew it was true.

He yelled like all the goddamn frustration and anger building inside him over the past few months was forcibly ripped out of him, and then his fist connected with the wall, smashing through layers of drywall and leaving a nasty gaping gash in the paint.

Shaking like a leaf, and wiping his tears away with his bloodied fist, he stormed out of the hotel room, ignoring the sounds of Ryan calling his name.

_He didn't stop running until he reached outside until his lungs were burning in his chest until his face was sodden with tears. And he didn't fucking look back._


	18. Putting Up Barriers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Shane makes a decision.

It was hot and humid outside, the only reprieve from the sauna-like conditions was the lukewarm breeze rippling through the night sky. Shane sat slumped on the rough gravel curb, dress shirt warmly damp with sweat, hair butchered by the same offense. His boss would be appalled. His palm was coated with a quickly-drying sheen of red, wounded hand bleeding alarmingly from his knuckles, bruised purple. His tear-damp face was cooling in the stifled breeze, slowly but surely, and the anger in Shane's heart was starting to ebb away with every dull ache of his throat. He glanced up at the stars, the glittering jewels of the sky, his mom used to call them. He wondered how his mom was doing, he hadn't talked to her in months. If she didn't think he was dead, he would have been just as good as dead to her by the time he could finally call. Of course, not like he'd ever get the chance.

He hadn't seen stars in half a year. It's funny, how you only miss the little things when they're impossibly far away. He heard steady footfalls approaching, cutting into his allocated brooding, and he sighed deeply, somehow knowing exactly who it was without even sparing a glance up. He quickly swiped his sleeve over his face and straightened his jaw. Someone sitting beside him, an awkward pause as he felt eyes practically boring holes into the side of his head.

"You done now, or are you gonna punch another wall?" Ryan asked, maintaining a justified amount of pissed-off cadence. He knew Ryan cared, though. He went to go find Shane instead of taking advantage of the alone time and the jacuzzi.

Shane was grateful for this fact, and for one less bill to have to pay for, had Ryan gone through with whatever endeavors an ex-frat might do, given the situation. Less clogged pipes for room service, that's good.

"Thinkin' about it. don't know if there's many walls out here for me to bash in."

"That's the spirit!"

"God, you're insufferable, you've never shut up, do you?"

"No, and you just put a golf-ball sized dent in the wall of a five-star hotel, we all have our things, Tinsley."

"Touché," Shane chuckled.

A comfortable silence fell over them, draping over the air like a light blanket- ironically, the last thing he wanted to think of in this sweltering heat.

"How's your hand?" Ryan asked softly, Shane meeting his gaze slowly, and oh—his eyes were soft too. Did Ryan always look at him like that?

"Hey, Long Legs, you gonna answer sometime this year? I know you didn't lose that much blood, that big-ass head of yours still work?"

"Clearly not, I just punched a hole in thedamn wall."

Ryan laughed— lighthearted but deep in his chest, his head shaking in amused disbelief, "Come on, you idiot, just—"

He didn't finish his sentence before he was taking Shane's hand in his own, turning it over and frowning as if one of his fingers had suddenly turned into a tentacle.

He traced over the bruised knuckles of his hand, small cuts stinging in the tender areas. Shane winced, to which Ryan looked up at him guiltily, "Sorry."

And then Ryan knelt down in front of him.

"Wha—"

"Calm down, Long Legs, I'm just fixing your hand," Ryan rolled his eyes, grinning self-satisfactorily as he murmured, "who's jumping to the wrong conclusions now?"

He reached into his back pocket, pulling out a small white tube of what Shane assumed was antiseptic and a thick roll of bandages. He started to clean the small cuts, Shane muttering a few complaints here and there. Ryan rolled his eyes, ripping off a strip of bandage with his teeth, "Oh, be quiet, it's not that bad."

Shane watched him intently as he mummified his palm, gently fastening it secure with a safety pin, holding onto his hand a minute longer than necessary. It was such a strangely intimate moment that his mind screamed at him to move away, to crack a joke— crack the overbearing silence.

But the funny thing was, he couldn't seem to bring himself to.

"You okay, Long Legs?"

He looked down at where Ryan was crouched in front of him, bare knees probably skinned to the bone on the harsh asphalt road, grinning this big, sunshiney smile at Shane that he most definitely was undeserving of. And he felt heat prickle on the back of his neck, his face annoying hot.

The worst thing was, he couldn't blame it on the heat of the air anymore— the sun had gone down long ago.

"Oh, I almost forgot," Ryan said, and Shane still couldn't meet his eyes.

In fact, he still didn't meet them until he felt Ryan's lips gently pressed against his knuckle, soft and warm against the battered skin.

"What are y—"

"Kissing it better," Ryan interrupted, sitting back on his heels, and Shane couldn't help but miss the light pressure against his skin, "c' mon, Tinsley, this is serious business here."

Despite himself, he found himself laughing. He found himself doing that a lot lately. Before Ryan came along, he hadn't done that in months— as it turns out, there isn't much room for comic relief in the Mob.

"You're insufferable, I hope you know that."

"Yeah, but you love it," Ryan grinned, inches away from his face. Wait—inches away from his face? When had that happened?

"I can't say that I do, Bergara. That's where you've got me wrong."

Ryan leaned closer. Shane could feel his breath fanning over his lips. His eyes trained intently on his. Their noses almost bumping. The heat suffocating between them. Far too close.

"I think I'm growing on you, Long Legs. You're just too damn proud to admit it," he said confidently, challengingly, breath ghosting over his lips.

Shane glanced at the small distance between their faces, Ryan's silent challenge lying untaken in the air. The quiet hum of the night unbearably loud in his ears.

He gazed into Ryan's big, hopeful eyes.

And then he pulled away.

"We should probably get back inside," he said lamely, standing up, looking down at Ryan, who looked like someone pulled the rug out from under his feet.

"Yeah," he sighed, "whatever you say, Tinsley."

And just like that, silence fell steadily over them again. The barrier was put back up.

The moment was over.

* * *

When they returned to the hotel, clothes sticking stubbornly to their skin amidst the humidity-turned-coolness, Shane stared down at Ryan, sat down on the edge of the bed.Shane unbuttoned his collar deftly, raising his chin slightly for better access.

"What, you gonna strip for me now?" Ryan scoffed, and Shane may be emotionally constipated in every sense of the word, but hell if he didn't note the undertone of hurt— rejection, in the joke. But, like the cowardly man he was, he chose not to address it.

"You're not allowed to leave the room on your own from now on, okay?" he said cooly, composure inexplicably impenetrable for a man who had just sobbed within the last inch of his life.

"What? So I have to ask permission now to go to the vending machine like some kind of prisoner?" Ryan shot back, fade riddled with scorn.

"It's what's best for this thing we're operating here."

Ryan shook his head, "So you're just going to ignore what happened. You're gonna ignore the moment we just had?"

Shane paused, smoothing down his shirt, Ryan seeing the small spans of his bare collarbone in his peripheral as he frowned up at him, gaze challenging.

Shane looked away, taking his watch off at the armoire and looking into the spotless mirror, "Nothing happened. There was no moment."

He stared into Ryan's wounded expression from the mirror's reflection. It was easier that way. He watched as he shook his head to himself, crawling into his bed, on the side that positioned him furthest away from Shane. And for a moment, whatever remaining piece of humanity left within him sent a pang of guilt through him. Pangs that made him want to apologize to Ryan. But then he remembered why they were here in the first place. Exactly what they were dealing with. He was protecting Ryan, simple as that. He didn't have to like it, didn't have to understand it, but like hell, Shane was going to let his blood spill on his conscience.

And so, with one last look at the man curled up less than ten feet away from him, he turned off the light and crawled into bed.

It was better this way.


	19. Bound to Each Other, (But It's Not That Way, We Don't Care About One Another)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Song title is from Thunder and Lightning by Chicago
> 
> Some other good songs I associate with this chapter are Thunder and Lightning by Meredith Brooks, and Thunder and Lightning by the Madness (there's a theme here- if you haven't gotten that already). But I'm going to compile an entire playlist for this book soon. <3

When Ryan woke up, Tinsley was gone. Not even so much as a goodbye or an explanation where he went. _Whatever_. He could care less. _That's a double negative, which makes your wording mean you do, in fact, care, and a lot at that,_ his brain chimed in.

Goddammit.

He shoved the stupid covers off the stupid bed, hating the way it floated back against the mattress like a goddamn kite in the wind.His feet hit the plush carpet. There's rich, and then there's 'you can walk on this hotel carpet barefoot without getting tetanus or some kind of weird jungle virus,' rich. He peered over at the bed beside him, left perfectly made. Hell, even the corners of the sheets were tucked in properly, in that way that made it look that at no point in time, had there ever existed human life in that bed. Of course, there had been. If you could even call Tinsley human. Ryan was affirmed when he pressed his palm into the mattress and still felt the familiar, unmistakable warmth of a human body. He must have only just left. His stomach yowled in protest, reminding him that he never did end up eating dinner last night. Of course, he would have, had Tinsley not been an asshole, sought redemption, and then decided to be an asshole again.

They were in a five-star hotel, goddammit! Ryan hadn't spent the last three years rooming with sweaty, fratty boys only to get a taste of luxury and get stuck eating cornflakes and breakfast burritos like he did every goddamn Saturday. He was tempted to crawl into the marble jacuzzi tub and pop open that five-hundred-dollar champagne just to spite Tinsley. But, contrary to popular belief, he did have some sense of shame, and goddamn it, if he was gonna stand naked in front of that idiotic lummox, it was going to be by his own volition.

So, instead, he just turned on the T.V. and waited for C.C. to return.He was a goddamn lucky man that the hotel got the exact channel the Lakers were playing on, or he'd have killed him before the Mafia ever could.

Tinsley was safe for another day.

* * *

When the tall man ambled in, looking criminally good for someone that woke up at six o-clock- maybe earlier, Ryan scowled in his direction. Despite his handsomeness, his clean-pressed white shirt and navy jeans did nothing to hide the nasty—frankly concerning, bruising under his eyes that told Ryan maybe he wasn't sleeping as well at night as he made it seem to be. Either that, or he was sneaking out at night to utterly deck someone- and get decked in return, evidently. Good. He shouldn't sleep well at night with the things he does. It should be illegal, really, the way he acts. But of course, if there's anything that Ryan's learned is that it's really not a crime for someone to not want you, after all.

But goddammit, if he starved in that room, he would certainly do things far worse to Tinsley; the law couldn't even begin to cover it. Maybe he was a little angry already when the doorknob turned, revealing his overbearing, insufferable comrade, looking calm and collected, as always.

"Where have you been?!" he demanded, blood rushing to his head as he shot up, Lakers game abandoned.

He steadied himself against the dresser, casting daggers Tinsley's way. Judging by his unperturbed expression, they weren't quite as sharp as he had intended. Or, the more likely possibility, he was just an asshole.

"Out. Where have you been?" he asked, a far too proud smirk on his face.

"Here, you idiot! It's not like I fucking have a choice!"

"You're right, you don't."

"Tinsley!" Ryan protested, a sharp edge to his voice that prompted a slight flinch in return. A tiny movement in space and time that stroked his ego and loosened his tongue.

The funny thing was, a man seeing the ramification of his actions only empowered him to do more; good or bad, maybe it wasn't about the consequence, but for a moment in time, having control. Some kind of messed-up God complex. Not like Ryan really was thinking of that at the moment, only the hunger eating away at his stomach and the man who was too goddamn stubborn to even look him in the eyes.

"Look at me! I'm fucking starving!"

Tinsley gave him a brief once-over, brown eyes flicking down his body in a way that made Ryan feel incredibly self-conscious, "Please, you're hardly wasting away— your precious muscles are still just as impressive as they were when we first met and you started talking about ghosts, calm down"

"A-are you— don't fucking flatter me!" Ryan spluttered.

"Why? You afraid it might work?"

"No!"

"I'm a little bit afraid, I'm not sure they made this shirt factoring in the possibility of a tiny man jumping me."

"Oh, I'll show you what it's like to jump someone—" he growled, sounding more petulant than intimidating, but the lunge he took toward Tinsley was enough for him to step back.

"Now, now. That won't be necessary."

Ryan's shoulders tensed under his airy, all-too-light gaze, brows furrowed tautly against his forehead, all his anger from last night quickly returning, not as if it ever left, just got pushed down, " _'That won't be necessary?'_ Jesus _Christ,_ dude, why can't you ever just have a goddamn normal conversation with me?! You act like you're a robot, would it fucking kill you to show _any_ emotion at all?"

"Ryan—"

"No, tell me, Tinsley, do you care about a goddamn thing?!" Ryan demanded, hurtful words just propelling him forward. Serves him right, _you reap what you sow, motherfucker._

"Ryan—" sharper this time, cut as lewdly harsh as a jagged piece of glass. Ryan wanted to stab it into his chest dozens of times.

"You don't, do you?" he continued, shoving Tinsley back with a push of his hands, the man stumbling back with no give, "You don't care about fuck all- not anyone, not anything, _nothing_. You just wanna-"

"I care about _you_ , Ryan!" he barked, or at least tried to. It came out sounding far too tentative, too laden with emotion, too fragile, but it settled silence through the air as effectively as the loudest scream ever could.

Ebbing away was the cold exterior he put out. On full display was his vulnerability, his heaving chest and terrified eyes revealing worlds upon worlds of tragedy, of fear.

" _Tinsley,_ " he murmured softly, plaintively, reaching out for him.

Years upon years of his life, of things accumulating, getting lost and finding homes in unforeseen places, as things often do. Everything building up to this one moment, a great crescendo of—

_Boom!_

Thunder roared outside, lightning spider-webbing across the sky. Ryan hadn't realized it was raining, and neither had Tinsley if the petrified expression on his face held any truth. Tinsley ripped out of his imminent hold, storming towards the window and shakily trying to pull it shut, to no avail. He looked deathly and seemingly unjustifiably pale, fingers fumbling with the lever.

" _Jesus,_ man," Ryan said, placing his hand over Tinsley's tremulous one, yanking the window shut, and staring up into his wild eyes, "are you o—"

But Ryan never got to finish his sentence, because, at that moment, Tinsley kissed him.

He hadn't even noticed him move, though it was more of him falling into, melting into Ryan, broad, calloused hands cupping his face as if it were his lifeline and chasing his lips desperately, like a starving man.

Ryan wondered if Tinsley could feel his deafening heartbeat thrumming through his skin as he could. Feel the heat of his cheeks as he felt himself blush like a virgin. Tinsley's weight flush against him propelled them back until the backs of Ryan's knees hit the mattress, the both of them sinking into the plush bed, C.C. a heady weight on top of him, all he could feel, all he could taste, smell, sense, It was downright intoxicating, noxious, suffocating, but Ryan couldn't bring himself to pull away. He reckoned he would stay there forever, nestled somewhere in the spans between Tinsley's hummingbird heart and his big, strong hands.

Surely Tinsley was going to back away now— he _always_ did. Always left before he could commit to anything, especially concerned with Ryan. Ryan expected him to roll off the bed, go do something else and pretend it never happened just like he did every other time they had a 'moment.' Hell, he wouldn't have been surprised if he punched another hole in the wall.

Except...he didn't.

Tinsley just pulled gently on his bottom lip with his teeth, licking hotly into his mouth, swallowing the breathy, "Tinsley," Ryan had gasped out.

He traced his fingers down his sides, coming to rest at Ryan's hips, where he gripped them tightly and surely, keeping them close against his own. He moaned involuntarily, arching up into Tinsley's electrifying touch.It was overwhelming as he felt the pads of his fingers trace gently over his ribcage. It was overwhelming as he felt his stupidly soft hair brush against his cheek as Tinsley ducked his head down to the sensitive junction of Ryan's neck and shoulder, kissing his way up there too.

He felt like crying and laughing all at once— the sheer ridiculousness of the situation, the constant tension between them, never solved, only paused, his ravenous hunger manifesting in strange ways. But he felt Tinsley's damp cheeks against his jaw and understood with some level of comfort that he wasn't alone in the feeling. It felt wrong— entertaining this when Tinsley had only ever really pushed him away. It felt wrong kissing the lips that would deny him tomorrow. But then he felt the warmth between them, their synchronizing heartbeats, his soft licks across his pulse point, and knew he couldn't deprive himself of this even if he tried.

He threaded his hands through Tinsley's hair and brought him back up to kiss his mouth fiery hot and so goddamn real that it hurt.

Logic be damned— Ryan was taking what he could get, no matter the consequences.


	20. Chapter 20

When Ryan awoke, he was alone again.

Not a surprise, just a disappointment. Sunlight was pouring through the windows, gently illuminating the room. The ray shone on a nearby glass, sending a prismatic shape on the wall. If Ryan woke up here every day, he might just become a morning person after all. His shirt had been left ridden up his torso, the bed still warm beside him, meaning Tinsley couldn't be far and couldn't have been gone long. His stomach groaned, deep and emptily, and he suddenly becomes all too aware that he hadn't eaten in a solid two days. Ryan fought back the acid in his throat as he wondered how long it would be until his stomach lining started eating itself.

_"Your precious muscles are still just as impressive as they were when we first met and you started talking about ghosts, calm down,"_ Tinsley's words echoed in his mind.

He flushed, neck hot as he crawled out of bed, steadying his weak body with a hand on the dresser. His shirt was pulled just below his collarbone, showing a small collection of purple-red bruises over his skin. He worried at his lower lip, tilting his jaw ever so slightly, fingers dancing over the skin. It had been ages since someone had given him a hickey. It had been ages since he had given someone a hickey. He couldn't remember leaving one on Tinsley last night- he probably hadn't. It wasn't his fault he was helpless in the presence of C.C. Not his fault at all. He slid the collar over his sternum, in effort to at least partially conceal the marks. He didn't want to startle Tinsley away quite yet, he could hardly bear another argument, another day alone. Besides, he didn't want to look like some harlot— utterly debauched, in the morning light.

The neckline only provided so much inconspicuousity, it had been stretched in the heat of the moment and left a particularly intense bruise along the side of his neck exposed. Really, it wasn't Ryan's fault. If Tinsley wanted to go around, tainting things in hard-to-hide-places, it'd be the hill he would have to die on. Ryan was contemplating eating the expensive, romantic chocolates the hotel kept supplying when the door swung open.

Tinsley— the handsome bastard, strode in, a small smile on his face, collar buttoned up high on his neck. Whether it was to conceal the doings of Ryan or just to make him wonder, Ryan didn't know. He peered down at Ryan through clear-framed glasses he had never seen before, light blue button-down tucked into pressed jeans, hair falling softly. Ryan briefly wondered if he had washed it or his hair was always like this without gel.

"I swear your legs walk in five minutes after the rest of you," Ryan blurted out, Tinsley raised his eyebrows and chuckled softly.

"Bold words, considering I have your waffles."

"Waffles?" Ryan said, maybe a little too dreamily.

"Well, yeah. I figured you were hungry," he started, interrupted by the embarrassingly loud rumble of Ryan's stomach, growling as if to emphasize the point.

Tinsley just smiled, as if Ryan hadn't just completely humiliated himself, toeing off his shoes and reclining in his bed.

Ryan's eyes flicked to his own disheveled bed, then back at his tall comrade, who was already staring past him, sighing.

"God, you really were raised in a frat house, weren't you? Room service should be here in a bit to make the beds, just..."

He reluctantly patted the opposite side of his bed. Ryan blinked, wondering if he truly saw the slight movement.

Tinsley rolled his eyes, already looking regretful, "Well? Come on, before I change my mind."

Ryan never moved faster, grabbing the plate of waffles off the counter and tentatively sitting next to him.

He gazed at the powdered sugar and chocolate sauce drizzled over the waffles, the heart-shaped strawberries adorning the sides of the plate.

"Oh, Tinsley," he lulled, saccharine sweet, gazing up at him with big, soft eyes.

He grunted, looking utterly embarrassed and uncomfortable, "This hotel...you can't escape this stuff."

"That's sweet," he grinned if only to rile C.C. up.

"No, it's not..." he muttered, "look, I think I should apologize."

Ryan's heart soared, thrumming under his skin as he nervously chewed on a bite of waffle. Maybe he really was turning around. He relived the sweet taste of his lips last night, craved it again. Wondered if he could feel it again so soon.

"I mean, I made you wait two days to eat."

Oh.

"Right," he coughed, waffles suddenly seeming less appealing to his stomach and yet all the more captivating to his eyes as he shifted his gaze downward.

"If I'm going to be making you lay low, I might as well let you eat well."

Ryan pushed a strawberry aimlessly around the plate, "What? You'll let me order room service?"

Tinsley sighed, "No, no."

He looked Ryan in the eyes.

"How do you feel about dinner?"

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. "Capo"/"Don": the head of a crime syndicate, especially the Mafia, or a branch of one.
> 
> 2\. "Ahò, subordinato!": The definition of aho in the dictionary is used to call someone's attention, spec. in an irritated tone, resentful. 'subordinato' means 'subordinate.'
> 
> 3\. ""Non posso credere che non morirò per mano della vittoria, ma la stupidità della mia inferiore.": "I cannot believe that I will not die at the hands of victory, but the stupidity of my inferior."
> 
> 4\. "Cosa Nostra": Literally translating to, 'our thing' or 'this thing of ours', it is a term used to refer to (the members of) a Mafia, most notably used by the Sicilian Mafia.
> 
> 5\. "Mio Dio": "My God."


End file.
